The elderly are always the first victims of an earthquake. They're the ones living in bare-brick, poor housing, their walls ravaged by time. They live in houses that, like them, were once familiar with strength and youth, but are now struggling under the weight of the years.
There are people who have spent their entire lives in houses that have now caved in on them in a matter of seconds. They spent countless days of simple, mundane country life in these houses. This is where they sipped minestrone soup, gripping spoons with worn, calloused hands.
They watched their children grown up between these walls, and then they watched them leave, looking for better work opportunities in the city.
These elderly people don't wind up in the newspapers. They're lost among a crowd of people who have also lost everything they have. But their loss is perhaps even greater; because when you're old, you have less time to rebuild and forge a new, different life for yourself. You don't have the time to get used to a new house.
No one can drag their memories out of the rubble now.
I've met these elderly people before, amid the rubble of other earthquakes, in camps hurriedly built by the strong arms of Italy's civil protection workers. Old men and women never left the tents they wound up in. Reporters had to go search for them, in the corners furthest from the entrance. And once you found them, you discovered it was impossible to ask them anything. What questions can you direct at a pair of cloudy eyes, staring helplessly into the distance? None. You sit there and you try to tell them that the sun is shining outside, and that the earth had stopped shaking. But they're not interested in anything you have to say.
They're waiting for someone to come back and tell them that they can go back to their homes. But more often than not, no one will bring them the news they want to hear. Because these old people lived in houses riddled with cracks and crevices. The buildings couldn't keep their promise to host their owners forever.
The elderly who lost their homes in this earthquake are alive only in flesh and blood. They are lost, stunned, and incredulous.
These crumbling houses hold their memories hostage: and there's no ransom to be paid. They carry memories of summers not too different from this one, winters white with snow, springs filled with flowers. When they collapsed, they kidnapped hand-woven tablecloths and old photographs documenting joyful moments.
The elderly who lost their homes in this earthquake are alive only in flesh and blood. They are lost, stunned, and incredulous. Many of them can't even shed tears. They have nothing left. They'll likely wind up as guests in some retirement home, motel, or hospital. Alternatively, they'll wind up living with relatives who may be happy to host them, but who will never fully understand their sadness. These relatives will try to give them joy, but their guests will not respond.
These elderly people you meet wandering amid the rubble simply break your heart. There are only a few of them, that's why they're so hard to find. But they are here. They're always here. Every earthquake leaves a few of them alive. It leaves them behind, with nothing to do but gaze out at the ruins of their past and meditate on their gloomy future.
They lost the photographs and the lace tablecloths that had allowed them to curl up and reflect on happier days. Now, it's all gone, buried under masses of rubble, photographs and lace. No one can drag their memories out of the rubble now. No one can save them.
This post first appeared on HuffPost Italy. It has been translated into English and edited for clarity.