Shield Of My Shame.

by Nicolò Passaro (Italy)

Making a local connection Russia

Coughing. Cough. Coughing again. It's been a long time since I felt the sensation of walking through a snowy square. The last time was when I was four years old, in Bergamo, when the cold and snow was so intense that it broke my skin and caused painful cuts. Cuts that after my departure, still hurt. While I was walking through the Red Square, large and majestic and with few people, I did not fail to cast an eye to the news that was circulating non-stop in the net at that time. That damn disease was spreading relentlessly, democratically imposing its domination all over the world. And I, a naive Italian, was in a country foreign to mine, with a culture so close but at the same time so far away. In the midst of my hieratic pose, a boy approaches me, acting strange but determined; for a moment I try to imagine that I was not his victim, but I give up when, as I move a little further away, to the rhythm of the cough, he stands in front of me and forces me to stop in front of him. We both look at each other. Close. In front of each other. Without saying a word. I had the overwhelming instinct to lower my head, but I resisted doing so because I was excited and scared. A surreal silence, covered only by the murmurs of the square. At last... "Are you Italian?" he said with a heavy Russian accent. "Yes..." I replied faintly, surprised by the question... "Mmm... I know Italy... and well." He said it smiling and turning his head. And here we are. Being Italian has never been easy. It hasn't been in the past. It wasn't in that moment, in that situation. I cough. I cough again and I cough even louder. The boy takes a step back. That leap plunged me into a vortex of shame, so loud I wanted to burst into tears. I was embarrassed, I didn't know what would happen, it was an open world for me. The boy is getting closer, even closer than before. My instinct was to retreat, I wanted to run away and leave, I felt uncomfortable. I felt like a living parasite, a pest-man. And yet... He grabs the zipper of my very heavy black jacket, grabs it and pulls it all the way over my mouth, totally repairing me. For a moment I remain motionless and stare him in the eyes, realizing how incredibly brown they were, a chestnut brown that blossoms in spring after a terrible winter. "You have to be careful. It's freezing in here." He said it to me while I was still impressed by his posture, his confidence, his pumice stone gaze. After a few seconds I could only say quickly, "It's true." Shit. "Do you like our square?" he asked me. I looked around and said, "It's very big." He smiled. He turned back and started walking along the square, briefly, inexorably, at such a cadence that he couldn't hear the noise of the buzzing of the Red Square or the coughing that was insistent under the black jacket, my shield I stood still in my position until a voice said, "Come on, I have something to show you." I began to walk, after a moment's hesitation. I don't know what happened. It was as if at that moment, the cough was no longer so strong, as if the cold was suddenly unfolding, as if my tumultuous body was warming up after entire moments of cold. Not that cold. As I walked, I began to take a look at Red Square, admiring its monuments, its colors, the people mixing their voices with mine. It wasn't that big.