Caprera Bedda Mia
In her book The Children of the Anthropocene, Bella Lack addresses a profound issue of our time: the gradual loss of our connection with the natural world.
She writes that in modern society our sense of place has slowly disappeared. Much of the anxiety and moral uncertainty people experience today, she suggests, may stem from this growing detachment from the landscapes and environments that once grounded human life.
I have often felt this sense of disconnection myself.
Nature offers more than physical resources. It provides belonging, continuity, and stability. Without these anchors, it is easy to feel adrift in a fast-paced world dominated by technology, digital communication, and constant movement.
At the same time, modern lifestyles often contradict our instinctive understanding that humans should live in harmony with the Earth. The environmental degradation that characterises the Anthropocene creates a gap between how we live and how we feel we should live.
Reconnecting with nature can help close that gap.
For me, this connection has always been deeply personal.
Growing up, I moved frequently between different places, cultures, and environments. While this gave me the opportunity to experience many landscapes and communities, it also left me with a lingering feeling of not entirely knowing where I came from.
Yet there was one place that always felt familiar.
My grandfather — my nonno — used to describe himself as a citizen of the world. At the time I thought it was simply a cliché. Only later did I understand what he meant: a sense of belonging that extends beyond geographical borders.
My nonno was born on the island of Caprera, a small island in the Maddalena archipelago off the northeastern coast of Sardinia. Caprera is known for its rugged landscapes, clear waters, aromatic herbs, and the constant sound of seabirds carried by the wind.
The island remains largely uninhabited and protected as a natural reserve.
For me, Caprera feels as familiar as the back of my hand.
Every year we would leave Florence in early June and travel to the island together. Sometimes I would even miss the end of the school term so that we could leave earlier. We stayed there until late September, returning just before school began again.
For more than seven summers, that rhythm became part of my life.
I remember running barefoot across the rocks, jumping between the shoreline and the sea, and spending long days surrounded by nothing but wind, water, and sunlight.
Caprera also carries historical significance. It was the final home of Giuseppe Garibaldi, one of the central figures in the unification of Italy. After years of revolutionary campaigns across Europe and South America, Garibaldi purchased land on the island in the mid-nineteenth century and eventually settled there permanently.
Among the people who worked within his household was my great-grandmother, which is how my grandfather ultimately came to be born on that island.
Caprera is therefore a place where personal history and national history intersect.
But what shaped me most was its landscape.
The island is home to Mediterranean plants such as juniper trees, myrtle bushes, rosemary, and thyme. Its ecosystems support seabirds, marine life, dolphins, and sea turtles. Today it forms part of the Maddalena Archipelago National Park, where strict environmental protections aim to preserve its fragile ecosystem.
Spending time there as a child left a lasting impression on me.
Those summers cultivated a quiet but powerful attachment to the natural world. Over time, that connection grew into a deeper commitment to protecting and caring for the planet.
When I think about the environmental questions that now shape my research and practice, I realise that many of them began there — on that island, running barefoot across sun-warmed rocks.
Caprera taught me that nature is not simply a backdrop to human life.
It is the foundation that sustains it.
And perhaps remembering that simple truth is one of the most important steps we can take today.
