#132 All Saints and Souls

Hello friend,

November is a sombre time in Sicily; traditionally, it’s not all jack-o-lanterns and candy. Instead, it's about taking flowers to the cemetery and lighting artificial lights instead of candles in memory of the dead. 

All souls and dearly held saints are prayed for in religious services in the Roman Catholic church as the seasons slowly transform, shift and change.

In the week before All Saints Day, on the 1st of November, Sicilians make the rounds of the graveyards with chrysanthemums cradled in their arms, paying floral homage to their ancestors and placing light globes around the edges of tombs. It's a ritual every family undertakes to visit, clean, maintain, and decorate their families' graves.

The cemeteries are a hive of activity leading to all Souls on the 2nd. Florists set up stands near the carparks of each town's cemetery, selling potted chrysanthemums and other flowers. Inside the cemetery is an office set up for those who want to buy artificial light globes and pay for the perpetua, which is the eternally lit light on each grave that is always on, symbolic of each lost soul of the dead.

Trinacria’s necropolises are decorated by the living, as the photos of the dead demand. The images on each tomb and mausoleum plead to be acknowledged. Each photo has surreptitiously robbed a piece of their soul, imprisoning their glances in an eerie reflection of life.

As we honour our deceased among flowers dampened by the rain and hazardous electrical wiring, we secretly utter a prayer for those we love and hope not to be accidentally electrocuted.

I’ve never celebrated Halloween; it’s always been foreign to me, even though the entire world seems to love celebrating this holiday with all its colour and masquerade. Instead of doing Halloween, I’ve celebrated I morti and tutti Santi (all souls and all saints), which are distinctly religious celebrations yet are more sombre and have become a part of my annual routine.

When I first came to Sicily, I thought all souls was macabre, yet there is a subtle underlying affection to it all. Everyone visits the tombs of their families' deceased, bringing flowers and lighting up the cemetery with hundreds of little light globes. It is about honouring your ancestors, remembering where you came from and the stepping stones that led to you, and it feels like an honourable ritual to follow.

The connection to families dearly departed used to be more intense, bordering on fanatical. In the past, the living prepared special treats and left them at their family's resting places. At the Capuchin Catacombs of Palermo, up until the early twentieth century, people used to visit their mummified relatives, talk to them, and bring them elaborate treats.

These days, the only thing that remains of this macabre tradition in Sicily is the preparation of biscuits called Ossa di morto (bones of the dead) and delicate little artful marzipan fruits called Frutta Martorana which are often given as gifts to children, who are left little sweets as presents, which the souls of their departed grandparents leave for them on the night between the first All Saints (Tutti Santi) and All Souls (i defunti) on the second of  November. 

Ossa di morto are delicate, sugary biscuits flavoured with cinnamon and cloves, which are left to rest and leavened for two to three days when they are finally baked into delicate little biscuits. The excessive sugar in the recipes is caramelised in the oven as the centre of the batter cooks its mushrooms out from under the whitened bone-coloured biscuit. The traditional version is very simple and sweet; often, the pastry is flavoured with different aromas like orange, lemon and chocolate.

The traditional Frutta Martorana is sculpted out of marzipan and is often enriched further by being filled with chocolate or Nutella. These marzipan delights are said to have originated at the Monastery of Martorana, Palermo when the nuns decorated bare fruit trees with fruit sculptures to impress a visiting archbishop. Today, these tiny works of art are found throughout the provinces of Messina and Palermo.

Throughout the years, these unique baroque sweets, made from almonds and sugar, have been moulded into anything imaginable and sold to tourists visiting the island, but they are really associated with November and the many generations who populate the cities of the dead.

Here in Sicily, on the night of ‘I morti, ’ the dearly departed benevolently pass by to leave gifts to children. It seems pretty macabre, but yes, Grandpa Giuseppe or Great Aunt Giuseppina bring small gifts like candy and toys. At first, the whole idea freaked me out, but looking at it in the context of this holiday here in Italy, it is none other than a method to teach children not to fear death and recall their family heritage.

Italian cemeteries have become almost beautiful, lit up by endless lights and lit by all the people who want to remember their ancestors.

So why wouldn’t great grandmama be pleased with little Jimmy, who brought her flowers? She returned the kindness by bringing him new coloured pencils for school.

Little Giovanni is genuinely happy that the Morticini (a diminutive of ‘the dead’) come to visit him.

This year, as I’m making the rounds of the cemetery, I am writing down birth and death dates and names so I can compile a family tree. I don’t think many Italians take the time to write down all of the family connections for posterity as I gradually compile a family tree.

Part of my family is buried here in Sicily, and all of my husband's family is dispersed over three different cemeteries. I've never been to my in-laws' deceased family, but I am probably going after these feste as there won't be enough time to do the rounds. One of my husband's aunts has promised to take me and fill me in on the details of that side of the family.

I am limiting myself to visiting relatives buried in the small cemeteries of Sinagra and Raccuja, tiny little villages nestled in the Nebrodi mountains in the province of Messina.

In the decaying cemetery of Raccuja, I see two sets of great-grandparents from my mother’s side of the family. My grandmother’s relatives are still in the area and have cleaned my great-grandparents’ tombstones. I add a flower to the already thick bunches and take a moment to look at my bisnonno, Cosimo Gugiotta, and bisnonna, Catena Scaffidi. Their graveside photos reveal wise faces with stoic stares who look at me beyond the grave. 

I wonder what kind of people they were. I recognised in them something from my grandmother, who had Nonna Catena’s same eyes and Nonno Cosimo’s round face. I know these photos used on their graves are the same photos my Nonna kept of her parents in her living room. They have always been a part of our household like two benevolent spirits watching over us. How I wish I could have known them.

The mausoleum of another set of great-grandparents has been abandoned as the family has moved away to Catania. I feel sad for them and place a few flowers beside the pictures of my great-grandfather, Filippo Bongiovanni, and great-grandmother, Catena Arrigio. The faces of my grandfather’s parents seem so much more severe than those of my other grandparents.

 I remember hearing stories about my bisnonna Catena, who was a strong, intimidating, masculine-looking woman, hot-headed and quick to come to blows. I recognise her physical features in my grandfather. He inherited her thin aquiline nose and long face.

These graves fill me with a strange sensation of awe and intrigue for my past. I feel high esteem for my ancestors and am enthralled by my family's journey. I would never have been on this earth without the people I see depicted in the photos of these graves before me. I wonder what they would make of me: if they would approve of me as a person if we would get along, or if there would be too much distance between us. 

At times, I used to find it hard to relate to my grandparents. Our bond was created by love and respect. My great-grandparents are more distant. Their history and life experiences would have been so different from mine, as would their language. I doubt I could have communicated with them, even if we had met.

I hope to listen to my ancestors, find stories from the family tree to write down and make my own.

The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years,

Those of my own life, who by turns had flung

A shadow across me.

Straightway I was ’ware,

So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move

Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair;

And a voice said in mastery, while I strove,—

“Guess now who holds thee!”—

“Death,” I said, But, there,

The silver answer rang, “Not Death, but Love.”

                     – Elizabeth Barrett Browning: Sonnets from the Portuguese.

Sometimes, I talk about Sicily.

Other times, I talk about whatever is on my mind.

My writing is always about lightning, the mental load, and sharing my thoughts.

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