Sacred Suburbs, devotion that seems a thousand times closer to to Cuban “Santeria” than the Catholic worship: in Naples Padre Pio is mixed with Maradona, the rite with superstition.
Each chapel tells a story, devotion born from the necessity that sometimes becomes a nightmare. Walk between “ultra popular” neighborhoods, neighborhoods that have fewer years than me, including buildings designed to make sure that there was no aggregation.
There is a chapel, there is life. That chapel holds secrets and dramas, most of the time impassable, tears and pain that will remain hidden in statues of marble and plaster decorations.
I am still walking and I know Vincent who has an angel tattooed on his shoulder that will pit. I do not know if it is his devotion but the fact the he needs to be represented with wings in his story, has something to do with it.
I continue my journey and I know Jesus, an illegal parking guard. Jesus speaks of God, a kind of God who is there but not seen. He needs the sacred, he needs also answers that are struggling to come out of this world. Jesus, for the cocaine habit, what God tells me that “sometimes pulls with him.”
Jesus madonnas and saints, saints who no longer fly, on the walls of a house / room in the basement.
I am still walking, small four rooms on the ground floor of apartment buildings popular, that’s where the mothers of the neighbourhood meet to pray, pray and hope that their childreen can do it, they can save themselves from their surroundings.