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.