THE WALL OF SILENCE

On October 9, 1963, at 22:39, a massive landslide of over 270 million cubic meters of rock and earth cascaded down Mount Toc, silencing the night. From a window, the pastor of Casso observed the moonlit landscape, unaware of the disaster unfolding. The mountainside gave way, sending a torrent racing down the valley at 100 km/h. The surge of water from the dam soared above the church, forming a 250-meter wave that crashed into the village, burying homes under boulders and flooding the elementary school. Though many were injured, miraculously, there were no immediate deaths.

As residents gathered to watch the Champions League final, a power cut plunged them into darkness. The commotion grew as they ventured outside, perceiving ominous signs from the mountain. The wind picked up, and panic set in as they realized the dam was in danger. Confusion reigned as they wrestled with choices: saving their families or alerting friends. Within moments, the air pressure surged, and chaos ensued. A wall of air struck, followed closely by the torrent of water that obliterated everything in its path.

After just four minutes, the wave devastated Longarone, erasing it from maps and leaving only a desolate landscape. The military arrived to inspect the ruins, grappling with the overwhelming grief as they navigated through the bodies. The dam, however, stood resolute, a grim testament to a flawed engineering legacy.

The landslide left a haunting “M” etched into the mountain, a symbol of tragedy attributed to nature's wrath, but the reality was far more complex. Corruption, negligence, and governmental denial contributed to the disaster. Despite warnings, officials dismissed the risks, prioritizing development over safety. When disaster struck, only 50 survivors remained, stripped of their dignity and left to endure their grief alone.

Over the decades, the narrative of the event shifted, with survivors silenced and their needs overlooked in favor of industrial progress. The law benefited opportunistic investors rather than those affected, while the community struggled to reclaim their identities amid the destruction.

Now, Longarone has transformed into a modern town, but for survivors, the trauma lingers. My grandmother, Placida, mourned her husband for over 40 years, visiting his grave until it was desecrated during renovations. My mother, then just 12, recalls the night of the disaster, the screams of her family echoing in her mind. The silence that followed has haunted us, a constant reminder of the loss. It is a silence that has bound us in sorrow, a barrier to healing and connection.

I hope for a future where we can reclaim our voices, confront our past, and begin to heal together.