Jerusalem

MY DAY BEGINS LIKE ANY OTHER. I roll out of bed, make coffee, and turn on the computer in order to touch base with my employer in Rome, the newspaper Il Foglio. A normal daily event. But today is different. I’m informed that Oriana Fallaci died at age 77 in her home town of Florence. I’m instantly stunted. The article I’m currently writing on terrorism no longer has my full attention and my thoughts turn in silent reflection towards the small, but fearless Italian journalist and author. We all knew she was ill and battling cancer for years, but seeing that she had fought off death for over a decade, it seemed as if she was immortal. The image of her with dark sunglasses on, cigarette in hand, churning out endless smoke and declaiming true and politically incorrect words, would defy time and be with us forever.

As the day unrolls, friends and colleagues call from Italy saying, “Fallaci died, have you heard?” Yes, I tell them, as I repeat for what seems the umpteenth time, “Another great has perished.”