Marina C. recounts her life between work and motherhood, marked by a desire for independence but also by the encounter that led her to marry and have two children. She recounts the difficulties of balancing work and family, while finding her greatest joy in motherhood. Today, as a grandmother, she relives those moments with lightness and affection. Finally, she reflects on the “declining birth rate”: the real problem, in her opinion, is the presence of so many children without families.

Questa testimonianza è stata raccolta all’interno del progetto “ANNOTU – Archivio partecipato in lingua sarda” con il contributo della Fondazione di Sardegna.

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Ecco la trascrizione completa del video:

MARINA C: «My name is Marina, I’m 77 years old and I’m from Sassari.
When I was little, I never thought about getting married, and not even to have children. I thought I would study and I would get a job, to be free and independent. Mainly, I was interested in being independent.
I saw my mother, who worked only at home, without help, there were six of us, and she did everything. I remember this woman always tired, between work, worries and fears for the children and money that was never enough. Mom’s hands were always rough, because she was just working, she did everything, she washed, she cooked, anything.
My father was also a hard worker, he was a carpenter, but for him it was different: when he came home he played with us children, he made up a lot of jokes, games, he sang, we played. I remember he lifted me up to the ceiling, and he seemed to me the strongest man in the world. He taught us how to swim and dive. But I kept thinking “no, this life is not for me”. Until I was in my twenties, I met a guy older than me. He had finished studying and he was already working. We went out together: I remember taking long walks in Via Roma and Viale Umberto, up and down, and we talked, we talked a lot. He told me about this little brother of his, much younger than him, a child. And they loved each other so much. He told me all the things that they were doing together. For example, on Sunday he would put him on his shoulders and took him for a walk. Another day, when he was at work, the child would look out the window, waiting for his brother to come home.
To me these stories were so tender, that my heart “melted”. “It may be, I told myself, that I could, too…” so, I finished studying and I found a job, but I also got married and I had two children. I’ve kept the job my whole life, just like I’ve been a mom all my life. It wasn’t easy to make the two things coexist. For example, friends, brothers and cousins were all married with children, but many women, at their first child, left their jobs and they were just moms, because it was too exhausting. I would run around the clock, it was challenging to think about the children: they had to go to kindergarten, school, all the things a mom takes care of, but there was also my work. And so my kids grew up. Now they’re grown ups, I also have grandchildren, but this feeling does not go away. Lots of thoughts, some worries, but it’s such a beautiful thing. The first thought is always the children, and now also the grandchildren.
I remember when my kids were little, even though I was busy with household chores, I used to think that the kitchen was a dive, me the mistress and them the customers. I did the dishes, I cooked, and we played together. Now, when the father and mother of my grandchildren are busy, my house goes back to being a dive for my grandchildren, but without running around the clock, without worries. We just have fun.
Today, many young people no longer don’t want to have children. And that’s a problem for society, they call it “decreased birth-rate”. But for me there is no such a thing. There are these women called “lunàdigas”, a word that in Sassarese I’ve never heard of. “Lunàdigu” is a weird person for us.
For a woman without children it is said either “she didn’t have them” or “didn’t want them”. But I’ve never heard of “lunàdiga”. The Sassari dialect is a bit boorish, unassuming. It doesn’t know about sheep, they are not shepherds. Perhaps for this reason that word doesn’t exist, I don’t know. I was saying, there is no decreased birth-rate for me. Because if it’s true that many women do not have children, but it is equally true that there are many children without a family. In a somewhat hypocritical way they call them ‘unaccompanied minors’, but to me they are orphans. Because of hunger, because of war, abandoned, sick or without parents. What does society do for these people? How do they grow up? Of course, I’m not the best mom in the world, but… having a family is an important thing. So, is it more outrageous to be a “lunàdiga” or to be an orphan? That’s what I think.»

Sassarese:

MARINA C: «Mi ciamu Marina, aggiu settantasett’anni e soggu sassaresa.
Cand’era pizzinna eu non pinsaba mai a cuiubammi, nemmancu a fa’ figliori. Pinsaba chi abìa isthudiaddu, mi saristhia acciappadda un trabagliu, pa’ assè libara, indipendente, soprattutto mi interessaba assè indipendente.
Eu vidia mamma, mamma mea, trabagliava solu in casa, a la sola, erami sei passoni, fazìa tuttu edda. M’ammentu chistha femina sempri isthracca, sempri trabagliendi e pinsamenti, ipasimi pa li figliori e pa’ li dinà chi no basthavani mai. Li mani di mamma erani sempri raffigagnosi, acchì trabagliava solu, fazìa tuttu, lavava, cucinà, cassisia cosa.
Babbu puru era un grandi trabagliadori, era masthru d’ascia, ma con eddu era dibessu: da ghi si ritirava, giuggava cu noi pizzinni, cu li figliori, s’invintava un bè di buffunaturi, cionfri, cantava, giuggavami. M’ammentu m’innazzava finzamenti a la cabisthuria, a me mi parìa l’ommu più forthi chi vi fussia. Z’ha imparaddu a nudà e a affungà. Ma eu continuava a pinsà: “no, eu chistha vidda no la vogliu fa”. Fino a chi, abìa vint’anni, aggiu cunnisciddu un giovanu, era più mannu di me. Eddu trabagliava, abìa accabaddu di isthudià. Iscìami umpari: m’ammentu chi faziami Via Roma, Viale Umberto, andendi, e fabiddavami un bè, azzendi e farendi, e sempri fabiddendi.
Mi cuntava di un fradi chi abìa, fradi minori, assai più mimori d’eddu, un pizzineddu propriu. E si vuliani un bè be’. E mi cuntava tutti li cosi chi faziani umpari a chisthu pizzinnu. Pa’ dì, la dumeniga si lu punìa in coddu e iscìani a passiggià. L’althra dì, cand’eddu trabagliava, lu pizzinnu, acciaraddu a dareddu a lu balchoni, aisittava a l’ora chi si ritirava lu fraddi mannu.
A me chissi cunti cussì tennari m’hani isciaraddu, propriu. “Po assè, aggiu dittu, chi eu puru”… Vabbè, aggiù accabaddu di isthudià, mi soggu acciappadda un trabagliu, ma mi soggu puru cuiubadda e aggiu avuddu dui figliori. Lu trabagliu mi l’aggiu tentu tutta la vida e cussì cumenti mamma lo soggu isthadda tutta la vida. No era faziri, punì li dui cosi umpari. Pa’ dì: l’amighi, li fradi, i fradiri, erani tutti cuiubaddi cu figliori, cumenti e me, da prima, ma assai femini, a lu primu figlioru, lassavani lu trabagli fora di casa e faziani solu la mamma, acchì era troppu faticoso. Eu currìa a dareddi a lu ridozu, era impegnativo, una fatica, pinsà a sisthemà li pizzinni, dibiani andà a l’ischola, all’asilo, tutti chisthi cosi chi fazzi una mamma, ma v’era puru lu trabagliu fora di casa. E così so crisciddi eddi puru. Abà so manni, v’aggiu puru dei nibodi, ma chissa isciarada no soggu mai sanada. So’ pinsamenti, calchi ipasimu, ma è una cosa troppu bedda. Lu primmu pinsamentu so’ sempri li figliori, li figliori e abà li nibodi.
M’ammentu cand’erani pizzinni, in casa, puru si abìa di fa’ li cosi di casa, m’invintava chi la cuzina era un zilleri, pa’ dì, eu era la padrona e eddi erani li clienti, eu fazia li piatti e di magnà, e eddi giuggavani, giuggavami umpari. Abà, candu lu babbu e la mamma di me nibodi hani chi fa, la mia casa torra a assè un zilleri pa li nibodi, ma senza lu ridozu, senza pinsamenti, acchì zi divirthimmu.
Abà, assai giovani no vurini più avè figliori. E chisthu, pa la suzziaddai, è divintendi un prublema, lu ciamani “denatalità”. Ma, eu la pensu cussì, pa’ me la denatalità no esisthi. Eu pensu vi so’ chisthi femini chi ciamani “lunàdigas”, una paraura che eu in sassaresu no cunnosciu, in sassaresu lu “lunàdigu” è una passona isthravaganti. A lu mancu si dizzi, si una femina no ha figliori, o “no n’ha avuddu” o “no n’ha vuruddu”. Ma cumenti “lunàdiga” no lu cunnosciu. Lu sassaresu è zerragu, no sa di peguri, sa di caula ma no è pasthori. Po assè pa’ chistha rasgioni chistha paraura no esisthi. Eu no soggu si dabboi è cussì. Dizia, la dentalità pa’ me no esisthi. Pa cosa: è veru vi so’ femini chi no fazzini figliori, ma vi so’ assai pizzinni senza famiria, li ciamani in maniera assai eleganti “minori non accompagnati”, ma pa’ me so’ oifani. Da la fami, da la gherra, abbandunaddi, isciumpiaddi, senza famiria. La suzziadai cosa ni fazzi di chisthi passoni? Candu so’ manni, cumenti so’ crisciddi? Zerthu eu no soggu la mamma migliore del mondo, ma una famiria è impurthanti. E l’ischandaru indi è? Lunàdigas o oifani? Eu la pensu cussì.»

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