‘Bitter like burnt coffee’

A girl named Betta (not her real name) was enjoying the warmth, sitting at the end of the road leading to her village when I met her. Still wearing her funeral dress and a black and blue Inter scarf around her wrist – an idea from her cousin Rosa, whom she couldn't refuse – she reflected on her cousin Turi, who had just died. The village below looked like colourful sugar cubes scattered on a green carpet, but the beauty couldn't hide the harsh realities her community faced. ‘This place, it's bitter like burnt coffee’, she said, yet ‘bitter’ and ‘love’ felt like synonyms as she gazed at the village she cherished.

She had left the funeral in anger and sorrow after the police banned public mourning for Turi, citing the risk of showcasing the family's mafia power. Betta's mother had screamed upon hearing the news; Turi's mother was in prison, leaving her own mother feeling responsible for the funeral of her murdered nephew. Turi was 34 and had a daughter and a son.

At 17, Betta was aware of her family's ties to the ‘ndrangheta, but we didn't talk much about that; with relatives in prison and an ‘honoured’ grandfather, it was impossible for her to ignore the family's history. Living in a family like hers meant feeling ashamed of mourning the dead and explaining away the living, including herself. It meant avoiding serious discussions, particularly about those who had left for better opportunities. Betta often learned about her family's past through hushed comments and nervous laughter during events.