People of Halaesa-Nebrodi: Filippo Fratantoni Sicily

The Story of Romei

The Contrada Romei, located in the territory of Mistretta, is one of the most iconic rural areas in the heart of the Nebrodi region. It's believed that, according to the descriptions by Silius Italicus and Polybius, the ancient city of Noma once stood here, and that the name "Romei" derives directly from the ancient inhabitants of this Greco-Roman city, the Nomei.

Nestled along the eastern slope that winds up towards Contrada Zupardo, near the Serravalle torrent, the former Romei feudal estate was renowned for its abundant production of grapes, citrus fruits, olive oil, and various other fruits. At one time, mulberries were also extensively cultivated here, their leaves serving as food for silkworms. The fertility of the land, combined with the mild climate, encouraged the inhabitants of Mistretta to settle here, as evidenced by the numerous ancient farmhouses still present.

After 1684, the Fief was assigned to Santo Stefano di Camastra but, following various legal disputes, a portion of it returned to the ownership of the Municipality of Mistretta. This led to a sell-off, and many lands were ceded to powerful families such as the Allegra, Natoli, Salamone, Armao, and Aversa, who built prestigious villas. Over time, this district became so populous that it warranted the presence of a detachment of Mistretta's elementary school, housed in a dedicated building where dozens of children were educated. This continued until the 1960s, as recounted and documented by Nella Faillaci, a passionate local history researcher and former head of the Municipal Historical Archive of Mistretta.

Today, the former Romei Fief is experiencing a new season: many of the old families no longer exist, but several estates have gained new life thanks to the interest of numerous new owners who have decided to make these places their home. It's from this interesting regenerative impulse that our story begins.

Palazzo Natoli-Giaconia: A Pearl Set Among Ancient Oaks and Olive Trees

I arrive for my appointment with Martin a few minutes before the scheduled time. He had informed me of a delay shortly before but had given me permission to enter the property. As soon as I step out of the car, which had until then protected me from the summer heat and isolated me from sounds and smells, I'm literally enveloped by the beauty of the place and the incessant chirping of cicadas. There are experiences that transport us back in time, and immediately I feel immersed in an unexpected situation that deserves respect: the ancient farmhouse hosting me, the "Regale dimora" (Royal Residence, as described in pencil on a wall by a guest), radiates extraordinary energy.

I feel like a guest in a place of great sanctity and, for this reason, I move on tiptoe. Even the ancient stone pavement deserves respect, and I tread upon it with circumspection.

While waiting for Martin's arrival, I wander around the courtyard of the imposing, yet well-integrated, historic residence, surrounded by ancient olive trees and dense woodland. Peering here and there, my attention is immediately captured by a spectacular fountain with the date 1761 carved into it. Water flows, and there is life. The central sculpted figure is nestled in a stone niche that still retains red decorations, a characteristic also visible along the main two-story facade, which features a spectacular double-ramp staircase leading to the upper floor. Indeed, I notice how the red with which the ground floor walls were painted is still visible on the facade, which, together with yellow and green, must have given the building a particularly elegant and classical appearance. After all, we are in the midst of Neoclassicism, and the echo of the archaeological excavations of Pompeii and Herculaneum evidently reached here too, leaving its mark on this building. 

I find some doors open that lead to the warehouses where an ancient olive mill is still visible, with its enormous stone millstone and press operated by pack animals. Electricity would arrive very late in these parts, but the old owners, heirs of the Natoli-Giaconia family, had in the meantime circumvented the problem by purchasing a modern system located in another building and powered by a generator. The mill remained in operation until the 1960s, becoming the reference point for the surrounding area for olive milling.

Next to the building is the completely unadorned rural church, dated 1783, with a small altar and majolica floor at the back.

Martin Décleve and Valérie Verdinne: From the Pandemic to Their Dream

The chirping of the cicadas is momentarily interrupted by the arrival of a car: it's Martin, who greets me with a warm smile, which I promptly return.

We begin sipping a cool aperitif on the terrace, which accompanies our pleasant chat, during which Martin tells me about himself and what brought him here from Belgium.

"It's a project that started a long time ago: I taught Latin and Greek for twenty-two years, and my wife Valérie inherited a family pharmacy, but we both had a desire to dedicate ourselves to art. So, at a certain point, I left teaching to pursue photography and cinematography professionally, and, with Valérie, we restored a house in Brussels together. During the pandemic, despite the restrictions, we started traveling in Italy until we arrived in Sicily, where we encountered this territory that immediately fascinated us."

"Valérie and I," Martin continues, "always thought about buying a property with special characteristics, one that would tell a story by itself, and we thought that in this area, sooner or later, we would find it. We didn't entrust our search to real estate agencies, but rather to word-of-mouth. So, thanks to common acquaintances, we were put in touch with the old owners, and after a while, our search concluded."

After the pandemic, Martin and Valérie bought the property from the Parlato-Martorana family and immediately began cleaning and recovering the grounds, but not the building itself. This was a deliberate choice. "For now, we are focusing on cleaning the eighteen-hectare land," Martin continues, "but for me, it's a real spectacle to recover it little by little. Every day is a new discovery, and that's beautiful! The goal is to clean about four hectares and leave the rest as woodland. The house will only be renovated when we fully understand which direction to take. We are looking for a model to apply, but the common ones don't satisfy us, so we will wait as long as necessary. We plan, however, to create a model that combines culture with agriculture."

The DDT Project is Born: Contemporary Art Marries History

"Two years ago, Valérie, some friends, and I spent our first summer in this place. Outside, it was still a jungle, but we all perceived the charm that emanated from the whole: peace, beauty, the land, history. In the meantime, we abandoned the idea of creating a farm holiday resort and simply dedicating ourselves to hospitality and catering. So we took a break, and now we are looking for a deeper, more spiritual purpose, creating a reality where our desire for creation can be shared. I can't imagine a day without creativity, without the desire to create, and with Valérie, we believe we can develop a life model that transmits happiness."

"We then shared the idea of setting up an exhibition now, leaving and presenting the building as we found it, using the many rooms to host the creations."

As stated in the press release, the DDT project uses the message found on the wall as the title of this initiative, but above all, it elevates it to a keyword full of expectations, in a residence that, in fact, at the moment, offers nothing regal but a rare, expansive sense of cathartic peace. Unlike A and G, the two unknown individuals who signed the graffiti with only their initials after a short stay more than one hundred and twenty years ago, Declève and Verdinne are well aware that in the long term of their stay, the undertaking will consist of "giving time back to the temporary."

Next to the entrance door, on the wall, some dates traced in red paint can be read: above, 1761, that of the foundation of the structure; on both sides of the door, dates ranging from 1948 to 1967 refer to the period of DDT spraying against malaria. Over the centuries mentioned, the place has undergone numerous transformations. But it is undoubtedly during the mid-century following the ban on the insecticide, at the end of the 1970s, that the most radical metamorphosis occurred: the conclusion of agricultural activity, the abandonment of the land, and the use of the main building, left for more than thirty years, as an occasional holiday home. The DDT years were those of the "great acceleration." Beyond the illusory desire to distance this recent past, the misappropriation of the acronym expresses the new owners' desire to make this place a place of agriculture and culture, a space where time can be given back to the provisional.

DDT project – Before leaving this royal residence

Artists: Régis Baudy, Sébastien Bonin, Alessandro Costanzo, Étienne Courtois, Martin Declève, Myriam El Haïk, Laurent Friob, Anna Guillot, Sebastiano Leta, Renee Marcus Janssen, Emmanuel Piron, Rawakari, Agostino Rocco, Alfredo Sciuto.

DDT project: Martin Declève & Valérie Verdinne Dimora del temporaneo, Mistretta, Contrada Romei, Sicily, Italy 16.08—14.09.2025 Opening: Saturday 16—Sunday 17 August

(1) Romei, crocevia dei pellegrini. Nella Faillaci, Il Centro storico-giugno 2003

Here's a comprehensive translation of the interview with Alessio Ribaudo, capturing the essence and depth of his words:

Sometimes, you can be a "Gente di Halaesa-Nebrodi" (Person of Halaesa-Nebrodi) even while living over 1300 km away. This is the reality for many Sicilians who, for various reasons, live far from their place of origin, and it's precisely what happens with Alessio Ribaudo, born in Santo Stefano di Camastra but adopted by Milan, and a journalist for Corriere della Sera.

Although Alessio has lived and worked in Milan for quite some time, that subtle red thread connecting him to his Santo Stefano di Camastra (and not just there, as we'll see later) has never broken. In fact, over the years, it has even strengthened, keeping alive his family, emotional, and belonging ties. This latter point also means he hasn't "absorbed" too much of the Milanese accent, a condition I personally greatly appreciate.

Alessio, your Santo Stefano-Milan ticket was never one-way. How strong is your bond with Sicily?

"Without roots, trees don't grow. I was born in Santo Stefano di Camastra. My mother, Angela Ciofalo, my grandparents, great-grandparents, and ancestors up to my great-great-great-grandparents were all born here. My father is from Mistretta, a land that, at least since 1448, has been home to the Ribaldo – then Ribbaudo and finally Ribaudo. A surname is never just a surname: it's a story, a trace, a witness passed down from generation to generation.

In Mistretta, every Saturday as a child, the ritual question was always the same: 'Ma tu a cu apperteni?' (But who do you belong to?). It wasn't just curiosity; it was the mandatory step to be recognized, understood. The answer was never trivial; just saying your father's name wasn't enough. Only when I said: 'U niputi ri ron Luciu ri S’Addiu' (Don Lucio of S'Addiu's grandson), the circle closed, and identity found its key. In Milan, where I've lived for thirty years, something similar happens. Here too, in certain circles, there's a distinction between the 'Milanés de la lengua de Milan' (Milanese of the Milanese tongue) and everyone else. Here too, surnames and dialect are seals. But the truth is, the bond with one's homeland isn't measured in kilometers; it's measured in heartbeats.

The Nebrodi mountains saw me grow up. I loved, laughed, and dreamed in these lands. I left from here, and my soul remains here. Here is the land that amplified the enthusiasm of my youth. Here I learned to keep my feet firmly on the ground and my gaze fixed on the sea, towards the infinity that even the crown of the Aeolian Islands doesn't bar. Among my 1,611 ancestors, documented, there were not only people from Santo Stefano and Mistretta, but also Militello (Faraci) and San Fratello (Calderone and Tomasello). There were Christians (Armao, Cannata, Smriglio, Scaduto) and Jews (Bartolotta, Giaconia, Giordano, Ortoleva). Nobles and socialists, contractors and artisans, shipowners and breeders, entrepreneurs and royal surveyors, hardened anti-clericals and high prelates, mayors and anarchists. Great riches and great downfalls. In short, all the contradictions of the Nebrodi were there. I carry them within me: in the way I look at the sea, in the silences of the mountains, in the tenacity that accompanies me every day.

Writing, besides being your job, is a deep passion. Where does it come from?

"There's a moment in everyone's life when passion takes shape. For me, it happened in middle school, when my legendary Italian professor, Gaetano Gerbino, gave us an in-class assignment: to write an imaginary article. His judgment was clear: 'A future at Corriere della Sera is foreseen.' It was 1986. That summer marked my life.

I had just turned ten when, for the first time, they put me in front of a mixer and a microphone. The publisher, Beniamino Priolisi, calmly explained: 'With this slider, you lower the music; with this one, you raise your voice. Go.' After a few tries, he uttered a phrase I've never forgotten: 'From today, you'll host the kids' news.' It was Radio Incontro. And at that moment, I no longer thought about the infernal heat of that cramped room. I only thought about words, about that thrill of telling stories. Soon after, I also moved into television journalism and print: from Giornale di Sicilia to Centonove, from Onda TV to Antenna del Mediterraneo, passing through Radio Stefanese and TGS.

I was just fifteen when I covered my first double homicide. I knew the victims well: a fellow villager who raced in rallies and his navigator-mechanic. I couldn't turn away; I couldn't keep silent. That was the beginning. Then Mediaset on Line, Italpress, Il Giornale, and finally the big leap: Corriere della Sera. For twenty years, I've been telling the world's stories with the awareness that words carry weight. I've used them to report on the Mafia, legality, and hydrogeological instability. My writing has never been just a profession. It has always been, first and foremost, a form of resistance.

You've uncovered forgotten stories. Can you tell me some of them?

"There are names that history loses. Liborio Ribaudo is one of them. Born in Mistretta in 1897, he believed in values that are rare today: honor, duty, homeland. At twenty, he commanded a platoon during the Great War. The Army awarded him the Silver Medal of Military Valor. After the war, life took him to Libya. It was 1923: the colonial war, the Fascist expansionist dream. Liborio was an officer of the Second Eritrean Battalion, under Graziani's command. Then came December 27th. Beni Ulid. Three hundred Italians against three thousand rebels. Liborio, at the head of his men, repelled the assault. He was seriously wounded. His comrades-in-arms stood at attention as they carried him back. With his last breath, he rose from the stretcher and cried: 'Viva sempre l'Italia!' (Long live Italy, always!). Another Silver Medal of Military Valor, but his name has faded in the alleys of Mistretta. A bureaucratic error placed him in Gela. But he was from Mistretta, and I dream and reiterate that his name should be inscribed in the beautiful Monument to the Fallen that my grandfather Lucio, with his art, helped to erect.

And then there's Maria Ciofalo, a young partisan and British secret agent, an almost forgotten figure. She worked for the Special Operations Executive. A courageous woman who operated behind enemy lines, sabotaging, spying. My job is to bring these lives to light and restore them to their rightful place in collective memory.

You've received important awards: the Pio La Torre Prize and the title of "Siciliano Lombardo dell’Anno 2023" (Lombard Sicilian of the Year 2023). What do these mean to you?

"They mean pride, but also a sense of awe. To see my name associated with the work of civic saints like Pio La Torre and Salvatore Carnevale or great magistrates like Antonino Caponnetto is an enormous honor. These recognitions are not just awards; they are pure energy to continue a job that is hard work, requiring constant dedication. You don't write about the Mafia and legality to become famous, but to give a voice to those who don't have one. These awards remind me that journalism is not just a profession: it is a mission, a civic commitment, a responsibility.

What are your thoughts on GMT™ Halaesa-Nebrodi?

"The memory of a place isn't just in its stones or its documents, but in what those stones and documents tell, and in how we choose to listen to them. Halaesa-Nebrodi is an ambitious project that starts from the premise that the past shouldn't be an anchor holding us back, but a springboard propelling us forward. This means recognizing history, but also giving it new life, so that it continues to dialogue with the present and the future. We must know how to listen to this territory without imposing, without forcing. Let the stones, the paths, the mountains, and the sea tell their story. It is in that story that the unique value of the Nebrodi lies.

This project has extraordinary potential because it aims to highlight not only the natural beauties but also the food and wine, cultural, and human richness of this land. To do so, however, it needs more than just a good idea. It requires true synergy among institutions, local entities, young entrepreneurs, and communities, so that the project leaves a lasting mark. Local realities, institutions, and young entrepreneurs must collaborate to give continuity and sustainability to an innovative project that is also respectful of its roots.

And then, a powerful narrative is needed. My articles on the Mafia are often remembered, about how they oppress and stifle those who, with the sweat of their brow, run their businesses: the honest people in Sicily are the vast majority. But there are many others that make me proud because they have highlighted the beauty of the Nebrodi and have convinced tourism entrepreneurs to include this area in their itineraries.

The media must be part of this process, because making the value of a place known also means protecting and preserving it. Those who bury their heads in the sand, like an ostrich, do not benefit these treasures. The 'niente vidi, niente sacciu' (I saw nothing, I know nothing) has already caused incalculable damage for generations. It is the worst stereotype and the most devastating media boomerang that can exist. The denialists who fret, point fingers, and shout, with the marranzano (jaw harp) in the background, only provoke repulsion in tourists for their closed-mindedness towards the truth and their retrograde attitude.

The role of the media is essential: to tell the stories of those who work, live, and love these places. Because making the value of a territory known doesn't just mean promoting it: it also means protecting it, safeguarding it, and handing it over intact to future generations. To tell the story of a territory means to tell the reality, without lies. It means to preserve it. It means to protect it. Only in this way can it be delivered to the future. Together: because alone you go fast, but all for one, you go far.

Telling the story of a territory, ultimately, is an act of responsibility and love. It's not just a matter of marketing or tourism: it's a matter of identity, belonging, respect for what we have been and for what we can become. This, I believe, is the greatest challenge: to find a way to make past and future, tradition and innovation coexist, in a balance that sacrifices nothing but enhances everything. Like a modern Ulysses, I dream that one day, when I put away my fountain pen, I will return to my Ithaca and find it not only intact, but also flourishing, renewed, enriched by all that we will have built. Not a nostalgia for what was, but an aspiration for what it can become. A home not as I left it, but as I always hoped it would be.

I believe Mario had an absolute blast last night. He, who always maintained that the dead never truly die but observe us from the afterlife, from another dimension, I saw him sitting on the steps of his house, on a small street near the Church of Santa Caterina in Mistretta. He was watching, watching us, and watching himself.

His clever, deep, and gentle gaze, curious like the goblins he loved to paint, rested on the faces of those who, five years after his passing, had decided to accept the invitation from family and friends to attend a cool August evening dedicated not to his commemoration, but to his memory.

He had a blast, as I said. I noticed it when he was in stitches, listening to the words of his close friend, Tatà. Growing up with a person, sharing their battles, passions, bold and unconventional choices, their successes and failures, is the fertile ground where a sincere, deep, and timeless friendship germinates, grows, and matures. This is why Tatà, in talking about Mario, couldn't help but talk about himself. And vice versa. Mario, sitting on those steps, laughed and Tatà smiled, between one anecdote and another, as he spoke to us about Mario the boy, Mario the artist, Mario the philosopher, Mario the politician, Mario the "communist," Mario the writer, Mario the man.

At a certain point, however, Mario's amused expression changed, becoming more introspective. The scene was changing, and Mario was changing too. His son Alvaro took up his guitar, adjusted the microphone, and, along with Valentina, began to sing the first notes of "La canzone di Marinella," by that De André whom Mario, so long ago, had introduced to his own son.

Mario had sung De André over and over at home, during get-togethers, maybe even with his group, Gli Elfi, but now, hearing it sung by Alvaro, it moved him and, at the same time, pleased him. "Alvaro is really good," he thought to himself, as the magic of the music spread along the narrow street crowded with people. Then I saw him go down the stairs and play the last verse along with them:

"This is your song, Marinella Who flew to the sky on a star And like all the most beautiful things You lived only for a day, like the roses And like all the most beautiful things You lived only for a day, like the roses."

While Alvaro and Valentina continued their musical performance, Mario, Liria, and Ferruccio led us up the stairs into what is now a small museum. It holds paintings, sketches, writings, and various documents produced by Mario during his long artistic life, carefully preserved by his family in that treasure trove of material and immaterial culture that Tatà would like to turn into a Foundation. It is the studio-workshop where Mario unleashed his exceptional artistic sensibility, his ironic, sarcastic, irreverent, bold, and fascinating, yet also gentle, brush. The colors, the painted figures with their almost photographic appearance, the symbols and symbolisms, the gnomes, toads, open books, and faces have always struck me.

The Rimembranze exhibition will also be open today, August 16th, from 7:00 PM onwards. If you look closely, Mario will still be there watching, watching us, watching himself.

For more information: http://www.mistretta.eu/Speciale%20Mario%20Biffarella.html