The skills of an emergency manager are the product of his or her continuous training combined with experience in the field. There is one thing, however, that an emergency manager cannot learn from texts, training sessions or in the field; instead, it is within him or her. It is called passion. When combined with empathy, it guarantees surprising results. True passion requires sacrifice and work. 

In their work, emergency managers hope for the best, that what they do will be a positive experience and have positive outcomes. Yet some scenarios can be tough on this hope. Toughest are those in which emergency operators are called to intervene in conflict zones during military interposition or stabilization activities. They are confronted with the helpless victims of unwanted wars, the civilian population to which the war has brought desolation and misery. Their eyes ask the emergency manager for any simple help that can lead them out of the tragedy they have experienced. It is in those moments and from those glances that feelings of passion and solidarity grow.

All the ongoing conflicts in the world have as their lowest common denominator the devastating impact generated indiscriminately on civilian populations, making them victims of a single major "global humanitarian emergency."Younger generations must be aware of this in order to become active in the construction and development of a culture of peace and extended solidarity.

With this purpose, every year the Italian Civilian Victims of War Association has a national contest. The theme of the most recent one was “Many Wars, One SingleVictim: The Civilian Population.” Young students were called to present their compositions and provide a representation of war as a phenomenon without borders, which makes all the civilian populations that suffer it victims in the same way, beyond the limits (e.g. time and space) in which this phenomenon occurs.

I read with curiosity some of the pieces presented by students from a middle school in Casola in Lunigiana, a small village in the middle of Tuscan hills.Two from young girls, Gaia and Greta, caught my attention. The poetic vein is impressive, though what is more interesting is that sense of solidarity looked for by the promoters of the contest that appears throughout the lines of her piece. If such feeling persists through her growing years, we will definitely have a passionate emergency manager character.

THE LAST RACE

STOP!I stopped abruptly. But what was I doing?

Turin,June 12, 1940. A clear summer evening stretched across the starry sky that watched over all living beings; at that moment everyone was sleeping.Meanwhile, I silently wandered around my best friend's house. The floor beneath me creaked with every step; it seemed to me that, shortly thereafter, I would be taken aback, like when one "catches" a child while slurping from ajar of honey ... There was something strange: even the walls of the corridor seemed to bend giving the sensation of vulnerability. I leaned out of the door which had remained half open and with a furtive expression I observed the bushes outside: ok, everything was fine. Then I shifted my gaze to the right, where the Po river was: there too, there was nothing strange. Yet I had the feeling that you have from time to time, when you have the impression that something bad could happen at any moment. 

Nonetheless, it seemed everything was normal ... Yet ... on the left, there was the sleeping city….when, suddenly, above ... It happened! A bomb illuminated that stillness; it had been dropped from the sky, I was sure.

In the damaged houses a sudden commotion arose. 

People screamed, cats meowed, and dogs barked. 

Ina panic, I started running blindly: I had to find a refuge! My heart was beating wildly. "Here, there is the grove!". During my run I didn't have much time to think because my mind was occupied with the meaning of one word: FEAR.

I was already inside the woods when ... STOP! I stopped abruptly. But what was I doing? Was I abandoning my house, my friend, my city, all of them? What if my friend needed me? I had slipped away with my tail between my legs, just like a coward. 

In the distance I could still hear the sound of the explosions and the terrified screams of the people. I was afraid but I had to go back to my friend who had taken care of me since I was a toothless and pocketable puppy; I owed him everything because he had fed me, he had pampered me, he had always remained close to me and now I should have done the same.

I sank my paws into the damp subsoil of the grove and hurled myself in the direction of the city. I felt that the noises of war were fading in my mind, perhaps because the sounds of nature showed themselves capable of eliminating any kind of worry; I felt the wind cheerfully combing the leaves of the trees, then the hum of the birds, then the flow of the river. Indeed ... I suddenly remember that if I had passed through the river Po, it would have taken me less time to get back to the city. I threw myself in that direction in a rush full of enthusiasm. Once I reached the crossing point, I jumped easily to the right, to avoid falling into a small cliff; I miscalculated the distances and the movement because I placed one leg on a very unstable piece of earth which, under my weight, crumbled. 

I fell. I was not able to move anymore. I had surely shattered a lot of bones and a trickle of blood began to come out of my mouth; it came out faster and faster, mingling with the slow current of the river. I could hear the distant sounds of war, the bombs, the sirens, the screams, everything farther and farther away ... farther and farther…

 ...goodbye, my friend: will you be able to do it without me?*

THE GRASS THREAD 

“Once upon a time, there was a happy and peaceful family. Mike and Jennifer Edvinson had three children: Lara, Marco and Giovanni.” This may look like an opening to a fairy tale, though there is very little of a fairy tale in the story I am about to tell... 

This beautiful family spent a lot of time in the backyard where I was growing, as a modest blade of grass. Here, summer days went by, birthdays were celebrated,Lara, Marco and Giovanni’s friends jogged around. I must admit that some of the most beautiful moments have been spent right here. I have witnessed the flow of this full-of-life river. 

One day, a gentleman and two soldiers in uniform appeared at the door (I could see him well from my corner). In a low, confident tone he reported to householder:“Mr. Edvison, you have been called to military life by the General Command. A war is about to break out; you will be certainly aware of the tensions that have arisen. The country requires your concrete contribution!" Having followed that decree with anxiety and trepidation, Mrs. Jennifer burst into tears, whilst her children, not very conscious of what was happening, due to their age, continued playing.  

Mr.Edvinson had to leave. The family realized that something very serious was about to happen not only because of the dad’s absence but also because of the strange movements that could be noticed in the surrounding countryside. From my garden I could see that, outside the fence, frightened and nervous soldiers labored frantically to build trenches, to create barriers, to place machine guns and other weapons. The air was charged with tension. 

A few days later, all the district’s inhabitants listened to the sound of the bells, articulated in a sad and monotonous melody. What they had been feared for some time was about to begin: the war. Everyone tried to run away from that area, obviously trying to take away what they could save. Even the soldiers who were prowling the surrounding grounds, I could see well, were very restless, even though they continued to make their preparations. 

Suddenly, on an ordinary morning, the dull noise from the explosion of several grenades was distinctly heard. It was followed by blasts of bullets fired from M14s and other war rifles. More and more, I distinctly saw groups of soldiers wearing colored uniforms different than the ones I was used to seeing. They approached and overwhelmed the other soldiers, the ones I was used to. There were only explosions, shouts, shots. You could see someone pitifully trying to help their wounded comrades. Everywhere you could hear: “Doctors! We need doctors!" 

I, who knew those meadows well, could no longer recognize them. In front of me, just desolate land and a display of bodies. Looking at more closely, I was able to recognize a man. He was still alive; in trying to focus on him better, I realized that the man was him, Mike Edvinson. He was trying to take something out from his military jacket pocket. As soon as he succeeded, he burst into endless tears. A photo fell from his hands and, even though I was some distance away, I may definitely say that the photo pictured him, Mike, along with his wife Jennifer and his three children. Continuing to gaze at her, he muttered, though now with little strength: "I'm sorry, dear ones, for what happened: I didn't want it but I had to fight for you, and…I was told…for our homeland..." 

Overwhelmed by memories, physical pain and by the terrible sight of a display of bodies lying in front of him (bodies that made him understand that no one would cometo save him), Mike only had the strength to grab the gun to commit suicide: the suffering of war was beyond human beings! 

After some time, the war ended. The inhabitants of the area returned to their previous homes: I myself saw Madame Edvinson and her three children returning.They had already grown up too quickly due to the suffering they endured; nothing was known about the father yet. Jennifer was hoping for Mike's return and, for this, she had started tidying up the garden, planting new flowers and new hedges, waiting for the day Mike would return. You could bet a huge party would have taken place in that garden! 

One day a man appeared at the entrance. He was dressed in dark and had a dark face.He carried a letter with him, which he handed over to Jennifer, saying"Condolences, Mrs. Edvison.” She began to shed endless and bitter tears.The children saw her; this time they understood and cried too. 

While this story was made up, it recalls hundreds of thousands of families around the world who have really suffered and have been suffering the horrors of wars.Those who by their tears have wet many blades of grass like me.* 

*  This blog contains original narrative translated into English. Courtesy by Prof.Roberta Baroni and students Gaia Callegher and Greta Ballerini