The Sun Will Again Rise: Mystery, Uncertainty, and Faith in Sicily

Bill Gallagher

Nodding off I wake abruptly by the sudden dip of the plane. I take a bite out of my coconut biscotti and sip my pineapple juice. The small 70- seat jet prepares for a landing; I look out to the skewed horizon teetering with the turquoise sea.

**

Jet-lagged, tired and confused, we arrive in Cefalu, a fishing village that caters to the tourist. It is dusk, and I make my way through the narrow cobble stoned streets. Clothes hung out to dry gently flap in the wind sitting on lines above iron balconies. Guided by the gleeful screams and chants of children playing I find myself in the piazza. The pulse of every village, town or city is here, the piazza. The elated children are playing soccer in the concrete center, as older brothers and fathers look on. Nearby, men with their sun-worn, olive-toned skin sit and banter about life for awhile. I imagine they speak of politics and their wives, although I can’t understand a word of Italian. In the backdrop of these men is the centerpiece of the piazza, the Duomo. The sand colored stones of the cathedral glows in the warm reds of the setting sun. No piazza is complete without a Duomo and it is often the most ornate and impressive structure of the town. It is here that the sweat of men from centuries ago was poured into these tall testaments of their faith. Stone steps leading up to carved marble statues of their patron saints are at the foot. A black iron fence guards the church, complete with arches, ornate patterns and crosses as to triumph royalty inside. I look up and realize that there is more to Sicily than I thought. It was here that I first realized that far exceeding the physical beauty of these structures was the beauty of the beliefs that these churches stand witness to.

Sicily is a unique place, in that the island is an eclectic mix of some of the most powerful empires and cultures that the world has seen. It sits boldly in the Mediterranean just north of Africa, and stones throw across the Strait of Messina, to mainland Italy. The Greeks, Romans, Byzantines, Arabs, Normans, and Spanish all recognized its important location for trade and military defense. Each empire has left their legacy with Sicily as rich as the island’s fertile soil. Always, Building upon its predecessors empire, and making a mosaic upon the landscape. Each tile different but in summation creating a cohesive masterpiece.

I stand in front of the Duomo, with a palm tree beside, gently blowing in the crisp, early-spring evening breeze. In the background is an illuminated cliff that towers over Norman style the Cathedral. Although it is late, my curiosity overcomes my weary body and I climb the stone steps through the Gothic archway. The inside is filled with brilliant and beautifully preserved Byzantine mosaics. Each tile is angled a certain way to maximize the reflection of light onto the gold leaf. The light is dim but the reflected light fills the void. It is here that humble churchgoers come to pray every Sunday, in a setting that is anything but humble.

A group of busy men hover around a wooden statue of Saint Joseph, standing upon a pedestal of the same material. It has holes in it for horizontal post to enter so the townspeople can parade the ornate icon. The men are carefully preparing it for his feast day, on the 19th of March. Joseph is an important figure for Sicilian Catholics. When drought plagued Sicily during the Middle Ages, it was Joseph that they prayed to. He answered the plea of the people and they in return, they hold a celebration in his honor. On this day the finest feast is prepared, and everyone is invited to partake in it. A statue of the saint is carried through the streets as the people of the town follow. Money or jewelry will decorate the statue. The hard-earned Lira of a fisherman will be offered for their sins. Single women walk barefoot through the cobble stone streets as a sacrifice, and pray that this year will yield a husband.

It seems that Sicilians have an intimate relationship with the past. It is in periphery of every view, if not right in front. Here the past intricately dances with the present to create the backdrop that is, everyday life. The gelateria, complete with its 14 flavors of gelato never overshadows the 15th century building that it’s in.

With that notion, the next day I board a bus, driven by Giovanni who doesn’t speak any English. He smiles and says “Buongiorno.” He takes us to the unsuspecting countryside, where the Greek Temple of Segesta paramounts over the vacant space. The stone columns are worn with divots and holes. It wears its age well like the elderly sun-ripened farmer. These pillars have seen thousands of seasons come and go but remain firmly planted and unwavering. Fennel brought by the ancient Hebrews grows nearby.

I stand speechless, amazed by its antiquity. My stomach rumbles, I go inside to the gift shop where reproductions of the temple are on coffee mugs, tee shirts and multi-colored tapestry. I order a panni.

**

It’s Saint Patrick’s Day and as the bus peels off I imagine my buddies back home in Boston drinking a few Guinness and watching the parade. Still there in spirit, I trade that for the drab and busy buildings of Palermo. It is Sicily’s largest city and has a heavy Arab influence. This is what I imagine a Middle-Eastern city to look like. I depart the bus and travel down a long stucco hallway of Catacombs leading to bodies hanging in state. Hundreds of years previous, they were priests, farmers, city people, and children. Nothing left from the world they once lived in except the moth-eaten clothes on their back. Deeper into the stale hall. I stumble on a room of just virgins. This strikes a cord. A cherished way of life, in a time past. An offering that was treasured. A woman named Gabriella from outside Venice stops to speak with me. We exchange a few words in broken English and Italian and somehow make a successful conversation. She is not big fan of the dead bodies draped on the walls. Rows of bodies lying, hanging, one from 1599. Skulls with teeth missing sit on the garb of the day. Some look at peace. Some have a look of horror. Some in suits, and some in peasant’s clothes. Beauty is meaningless. Ugly people, beautiful people, fat and skinny, even man and woman all end up the with the same sagging and frail appearance with empty eye sockets. I silently hope that their stories are still told. I hope their deaths were not in vein. Babies lay in state and can be seen through glass tombs. Parents preserving their innocence, no doubt.

Daylight. Outside a black cat gingerly cleans herself. I walk next door through gates to an above ground cemetery. Mausoleums are adorned by black and white records of their occupier’s existence. The photographs comfort me. Beauty is restored. The Cataldos: Rosa, Lid, Guiseppe, Domenica lie in front of me in a raised tomb. Dead flowers wilted from loved ones. There is a golden mosaic of Jesus, arms outstretched on a sandstone mausoleum. He is thin, draped in a cloth with a brilliant silver halo. A funeral passes by, people on the street stop what they are doing, and make a hand gesture that resembles a bull’s horns. This is believed to ward off evil spirits. Unabashed by this display of faith, they make the sign of the cross. They live in a country where 94% of the people believe the way they do.

Despite the popularity of Roman Catholicism other religions are celebrated in Sicily. Palermo for instance has a thriving Jewish community from what is left over from a culture that was expelled during the Spanish Inquisition. During the Arabs conquest of the island they transformed many churches into Mosques, and when the Normans came they subsequently re-took the places of worship. This unique circumstance yielded the unintended Norman-Arab style that is seen in many Sicilian churches. The clash of two cultures was violent, the product was beautiful.

**

Tired from a day of traveling across the island. I am lulled to sleep by the emerald-green rolling hills. Winding roads marked by signs cautioning cattle crossing give way to the dense Sicilian landscape. Green fades into the blue of the mountains. Without the presence of cacti, I would swear that that I was in Ireland. Day fades into night as I slip in and out of a pseudo-dream state. Tthe bus moves out of the county-side and into the smoking chimneys of factory filled Siracusa. The view looks more like my hometown of Worcester, Massachusetts then it does even fifty kilometers north-west.

I gather my suitcase and enter the newly built American style hotel. I follow the drab red carpet down an ill-lighted hallway to the room. Outside a dog howls, echoing a bone-chilling scream like that of middle aged women yelling for help from her attacker. CNN keeps me abreast of the impending war on Iraq. Catchy taglines, colorful logs, and a scrolling news ticker fight for attention on the screen. The link to my home comes in the form of a 2 X 2 box, barely heard over a violent canine.

Downstairs at the bar I order a gin and tonic to take the edge off. Joel wants to talk politics. He is sad like I about potential war, and our mutual helplessness is anything but comforting.

Looking for comfort I dial my father. The conversation ends with him telling me “God Bless you.” I put the receiver down go on to the balcony where the air is heavy and the cars are still. I look across the street to an empty parking lot, where the still-screeching dog is chained to a post, alone.

Comforted by unfailing rise of the sun in the sky, I find myself in the Piazza of Siracusa. The design is intended maximize the view the spectacular sunset. The most impressive structure in this abnormally shaped gathering place is the Duomo, complete with a masterful Baroque façade. Behind the façade, every culture that inhabited Siracusa has transformed the church it into their own place of worship. It was built in 6 century BC by the Greeks as a temple to Athena. Seventh century AD, walls were raised between the columns of the temple and made it into a Christian dwelling. Then Arabs then are believed to have made it a mosque until the Normans came. The ornate Baroque grapes adorn the arches, to symbolize Christ’s passion. Inside, the centuries work with each other to make up this magnificent sight. The pagan temple pillars are still visible in the church. Greek marble surround chapels dedicated to the Virgin Mary and the patron saint of Siracusa, Santa Lucia. I kneel and say a prayer.

It is believed that Lucia was a young virgin who had a strong faith in God. She was persecuted for her convictions at a time when being Christian wasn’t accepted. After she refused to marry a Pagan she was burned at the stake. But to no avail her body wouldn’t burn. Finally the angry mob put a sword to the throat, and killed her. Sicilians often pray to her, and they believe with all their heart that miracles happen through her. She is the patron saint of eyes. I purchase a metal knowing my aunt is at home battling with constant eye surgeries. There is an elaborate feast day for her, where bonfires are lit and there are processions in streets. In some towns there is a girl that is picked to represent her likeness in the parade.

**

Under the overcast afternoon sky the bus pulls into Savoca, the smell of brush burning fills the air. Far removed from the Hollywood movie lots, portions of the movie The Godfather was filmed here. All is quiet. It is siesta and everyone is indoors. Shops are closed, and the streets are desolate. Up the road from where Al Pacino acted 20 years previous, lies a tiny church on a hilltop. It is not used anymore but on this day, a middle aged woman with sunken eyes and dressed in all black with red flats, comes from down the street to unlock the huge wooden door of the church. While she struggles with the door my I move my feet to expose a smooth stone with words chiseled from it, translated: “here lies the babies not baptized.” I grow anxious. I walk into the dark, stale church that was formally dedicated to Saint Michael. To my right is an ornately carved alter with cherubim on each side. Votive candles surround a tiny wooden cross. I am warned not to step on portion of the stone floor, it is unsteady because underneath is a crypt for women believed to be possessed. The church was closed after reports of strange happenings, like the bleeding portrait of Saint Michael on the wall. The people of Savoca rededicated the church to Santa Lucia.

Outside I continue, up the winding road, and there is still no sign of the town’s inhabitants. Moss climbs the worn stone walls. It is these streets, every Good Friday that the Stations of the Cross are performed. A man is picked to reenact Jesus’ last moments. It culminates with the crucifixion atop the highest point in Savoca. A dramatic scene, where people shed tears for this realistic depiction. Every year on this occasion after Jesus is put to death clouds roll in, and it rains.

That night the New York Times reads “Bush Orders Start of War with Iraq,” page 14 tells me Am I hot or Not? , is on TV back home. When the U.S bombed Afghanistan the statue of Padre Pio in Messina started weeping tears of blood. I flip through the channels of my hotel room; all show images of bombs over Baghdad illuminating the night sky with neon greens. Exhausted, I nod off. I am awoken by an enormous boom, and an illuminated Sicilian night sky. With my heart racing, I run to my balcony that over looks the city. My roommate and I look at each other in shock, while hearing muffled sirens off in the distance, and a plane flying overhead. My stomach grows sick; we are being attacked just like Sicily was by the allies in 1942. I run inside to gather myself. “Just thunder and lightening,” we hear. Dan, sighs in relief, I try to control my shaking. I think the story of how Ancient Siracusa was attacked, pelted by boulders in the night; I have a sudden empathy for them.

**

The sun rises. I go into Taomina and stumble upon a small roman amphitheater in ruins. The tour guide tells me that prisoners of war were used as slaves and built it. When they worked themselves to the bone their bodies were used as lubrication to move stone pillars. This thought is surprisingly comforting to me. Perhaps we at least haven’t regressed in 2,000 odd years.

Later that day, Giovanni leads the rest of the bus in song “Volare- oh –oh –oh.” He flails his arms around to the music all the while negotiating steep mountain curves. From my vantagepoint it appears that we are floating, immense cliffs are all I see from my window. We ascend up Mt. Etna, which conquers the horizon. At its finest it proudly stands tall over the surrounding towns, and at its worst it swallows them up. The volcano gave birth to Sicily; its most recent lava flows yield the most fertile soil. The inhabitants of the surrounding town know full well that Etna takes life away as well.

Up the mountain further we pass an orphanage. A few years back the when the volcano erupted the orphanage’s nuns put a statue of the Virgin Mary outside and kneeled down and prayed. The molten flow went around the building sparing the children with no parents. Up the road we come across a house that wasn’t so lucky. It is covered to the roof with lava.

The bus comes to a halt the road abruptly ends; the debris makes it impassable. Some on the bus were dumbfounded mentioning a year previous this roadblock wasn’t there. The cabin roadside stands selling anything from honey, to lava sculptures of the Virgin Mary just picked up and moved down the street. They are at the will of the mountain, and they know there is always a little uncertainty when they see the smoking peak out their window. Perhaps that is why they are so religious, waking up knowing that the magma might have other plans for them.

Sicily is a place that knows life and death. It can be snatched away at any moment with the opening of the ground, like the 1908 earthquake that killed tens of thousands. They know violence and tranquillity. Whether its the Mafia’s grip on the island, or the echoing of the battle at Siracusa it is taken in stride with a cannoli and La Passesiata, (the after diner ritual stroll about town). Every empire rises and falls, but what doesn’t weaver is their steadfast faith.

Every center of every town and city in Sicily is a reminder. Every feast day celebrates it. It seems people wear it on their sleeve here. It is faith. It is as deep-rooted as the oldest olive tree, and an intricate part of their everyday lives. For everything that ails you a particular saint will take care of it. On Sunday, stores shut down for Mass. Even capitalism can’t buy their faith. Children are often named for the saint’s feast day that they were born on. I was struck by their commitment to goodness and piety. I was comforted in their reality of saints and the role of them in the daily life of a Sicilian Catholic. There is something more palatable but less tangible here that you won’t find anywhere else. While it is business as usual on Wall Street, Padre Pio weeps, and Etna smokes. It seems the people of the island have an understanding that living life is as brittle gift. But you have to find it here, there are no neon signs proclaiming this.

So as I sit in the airport waiting for my flight home I realize that most of all I am going to miss about Sicily is the constant reminders. That life is a cycle, that can’t be droned out by the television or prolonged by botox. I need a Greek Temple to keep me humble. I could use a bar and a church on every corner to let me know that there is a time for everything. Most of all I need a Mt. Etna to keep me on my toes and to help me realize that if lava was rolling down it, what would be important enough to save? And that no matter what happens the sun will again rise.

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