An Adopted Daughter's Identity Inside A Single Suitcase

One morning, almost 30 years ago, Marí took her friend Gigliola to Secondigliano, a northern district of Naples.

“Come, I have a surprise for you!” she had said. So they soon found themselves in a dilapidated apartment, where they were greeted by two young black girls, each holding a baby.

“They have to give them away — if they don't, their master is going to kill both them and the babies. We'll take one each!” Marí said.

“What are you talking about, Marí? I'm 40 years old, I'm not married and I'm completely broke!” Gigliola said, turning on her heels and going home, distraught. The thought of the babies kept her awake at night. At her age, she had given up the thought of being a mother. The whole thing seemed absurd to her. But one night, she had a dream.

The Virgin Mary was standing beside her bed, looking at her and said “Gigliola, get up. Now now, get out of this house and be a woman.”

At 6 a.m. she found herself leaving her house, walking to Secondigliano to bring one of the little girls home. The only thing Gigliola knew was that the baby's name was Gabriella and that her parents were Nigerian.

Back home. At first, when a neighbor asked her where the black baby girl came from, Gigliola said Gabriella was the daughter of a friend who had asked her to keep the baby for a while. Over time, people got used to seeing Gabriella, and no one asked any more questions.

And indeed no questions were asked — at least until Gabriella was 18 years old, at the time of her graduation, when it was necessary to present a birth certificate: Who was Gabriella? Where did she come from? And by what right did Gigliola call herself her mother?

The school's principal, a good-hearted man, allowed Gabriella to graduate, but by then the secret was out.

A dream becomes a nightmare

In 18 years, no one — be it at school, in the parish, at the vaccination office — had ever asked questions. Gigliola herself had almost forgotten about that day in Secondigliano.

With great difficulty, Gigliola managed to track down Gabriella's biological mother, who was detained in Pozzuoli for drug possession and dealing. She too had never declared Gabriella's birth in Italy. So it was necessary to turn to a lawyer, who obtained political refugee status for Gabriella.

After two years, one day the Carabinieri paramilitary police showed up at her house. At 9:30 a.m. the next morning, Gabriella was due to report to the Crotone District Court.

The whole life of Gabriella, an ebony-skinned Neapolitan girl, was packed in that suitcase.

She made the day-long train trip with Gigliola, who had brought along a suitcase full of photos from Gabriella's baptism, her first birthday, her communion, her elementary school essays, her baby teeth, her 8th grade report card, her diploma. The whole life of Gabriella, an ebony-skinned Neapolitan girl, was packed in that suitcase.

Even so, the judge only granted Gabriella a one-year residence permit, which has now expired. Gabriella should have been “repatriated,” but thankfully, Nigeria — at least for now — won't accept her because her birth mother never recognized her.

For her part, Gigliola has become my patient. What she and her daughter are going through has now worn her down. They have no money to afford a lawyer. They are lonely, afraid and don't know what to do.

I thought about them recently, on Mother's Day, with the hope that someone’s conscience will be stirred and that they will finally receive the help they need.