INSIDE THE PAIN, BEYOND THE UNIFORM: A TERRIBLE STORY OF SOLITUDE – Francesca Zaza

A testimony of pain: the day that shattered time

On January 13, 2015, Carabinieri Lieutenant Camillo Franco Sabelli, a respected commander of the operational mobile radio unit, as well as a deeply loved husband and father, chose to end his own life. His death plunged all those who loved him into profound shock and despair.This interview with his widow, Mrs. Nadia, was conceived as a space for listening and dialogue with someone who has lived through an experience so painful and traumatic that it leaves wounds destined to last a lifetime. The loss of a loved one to suicide is a devastating event, marking an irreversible rupture between a “before” that is forever lost and an “after” that is extremely difficult to face.The aim is to give a voice to those who have crossed this pain, offering an opportunity for reflection on the issue of suicide, with particular attention to situations involving members of the armed forces and the police.I meet Mrs. Nadia on a winter morning, cold yet crossed by a clear light. Nadia lives in Turin, and since we could not meet in person, we chose to speak through a screen, via a conversation on Teams. Yet that digital distance fails to conceal the depth of emotion that emerges from her face: a face still young and modern, marked by a discreet beauty but above all by profound sadness. In her eyes I read fatigue and pain, but also a silent strength—the strength of someone who has weathered storms and continues to move forward, despite everything.

The account of the tragedy

Mrs. Nadia, thank you sincerely for your willingness to share this painful experience with us. We know that your husband chose to take his own life in your home, while you were resting on the sofa and your son was at a friend’s house. He left a very clear farewell note, in which he attributed his decision to the mobbing he suffered in his work environment.Beyond the judicial and legal consequences you are facing in your search for justice for your husband—matters that fall outside the scope of this conversation—we would like to ask you to tell us about your feelings and emotions regarding what happened on that terrible day, so that your testimony may offer help and comfort to others living through similar experiences.

“When my husband left, time broke apart. For a moment everything stopped, then reality began to spin out of control. Camillo shot himself, but I don’t even remember the sound of the gunshot—only a thud, then an unreal silence, broken by my desperate screams. After the tragedy, I ran outside the service accommodation to seek help, even though my mind had already registered the horrific scene and I knew there was nothing more that could be done. The shock was devastating, and I was hospitalized in a psychiatric facility under compulsory treatment (TSO) for 20 days immediately after the event.

I could tell so much about the TSO and everything surrounding that decision made about me. I just wanted someone to hold my hand, to tell me I wasn’t alone. Instead, that support never came. And those wounds still burn today. It was not easy to accept that while I was in hospital, a move was carried out and I was stripped of the service accommodation, on top of all my trauma.

I felt overwhelmed by a storm: I cried, screamed, and consumed myself asking ‘why?’ a thousand times. The nights were endless, filled with obsessive thoughts spinning in circles, never finding an answer. Even today, those nights have the same bitter taste. Everything was confused, and I have almost no memory of the days immediately afterward. I remember only my constant thoughts of my son, and the fear of not being able to protect him from such immense pain.

After the funeral, which I wanted to be strictly private, the silence became even heavier. No one spoke of my husband anymore, as if his death were something to be hidden. I felt abandoned, invisible, as though our pain were an inconvenience to be avoided. I longed for a word, a gesture, even just a presence. Instead, all I seemed to receive was distance and coldness.In those moments, even a small gesture can change everything: a phone call, a visit, someone offering help with practical matters. In my case, these were missing. And words spoken lightly can hurt too, such as “you’re strong” or “you must move on,” as if pain were merely a parenthesis to be closed quickly. I prefer respectful silence, discreet presence. It doesn’t take much—just truly being there. Instead, I found myself alone, angry, facing an absence no one wanted to see.Often, in moments of great pain, being told phrases like “you’re strong,” “life goes on,” or “you must do it for yourself and your son” can feel more burdensome than helpful. Even when spoken with affection, these words risk failing to grasp the depth of the pain being lived, because those who say them can hardly understand what it truly means to be in that situation. Sometimes, those who suffer would simply like to reply: “Try standing in my place—then talk about being strong.” Ultimately, there are traumas and pains that remain unique and personal, impossible to fully share.“

The peace that never comes

In this context, how have you tried to find a bit of peace—if it can even be called that—and how have you managed your need to feel understood?

“Peace is a utopia in these circumstances. You never stop feeling this underlying pain that accompanies you every day. Guilt is also a silent companion, because you constantly ask yourself whether you could have done something differently, whether you failed to notice something.

Time, in situations like this, is only a meaningless variable: the answers I seek have not yet arrived. I am fighting a battle because I want to restore dignity to my husband’s name, and I want to stress that he was not ‘crazy’ and never showed any signs of instability that could have foreshadowed such a tragic end. My son Manuel and I have lived these years with the vivid memory of a man who was an exemplary husband and father.

Peace is never complete, but every day I try to come a little closer both to the truth and to greater acceptance of what happened. One thing I can say with absolute sincerity is this: my son and I do not have to forgive anything about this man who said goodbye to us so dramatically. Our peace comes from the awareness of having had a wonderful person by our side for part of our lives.

There are certainly moments when the pain becomes unbearable, when you can no longer live your daily life because you are overcome by mental exhaustion and a solitude so deep that you truly feel you cannot go on.”

Telling the truth to a child

When talking about suicide, the theme of abandonment often emerges: one wonders why the person chose to leave, forcing those who remain to live with that void. One begins to question one’s own role: “You made a decision for yourself, but also for me… and despite everything, I forgive you.”How did you approach telling your son what happened? How did you manage to explain such a difficult choice and, if possible, convey a sense of forgiveness?

“With my son, I tried to do my best, above all by helping him understand that none of this was our fault: responsibility for what happened lies elsewhere. I wanted to transmit dignity and love, choosing not to hide the truth but to protect him from the heaviest burden. With other family members, everyone reacted in their own way, but I always tried to remain open and available for dialogue.

Today my son has become an engineer; he has carried on with his studies and his life in the best possible way. I am deeply proud of the strength he has shown in achieving his goals. Of course, I cannot know what he truly carries in his heart and mind, but I know he did not lose himself after the tragedy that struck us, and he continues to love his father—as it should be.”

Stigma and isolation

After an event like suicide, did you perceive social stigma and/or isolation that made everything more difficult?

“My husband was a deeply respected person, and through his work and dedication he saved many lives. The stigma that often accompanies suicide is an additional wound layered onto the pain: you can feel judged, isolated, as if your family were ‘different.’ For me, however, the affection of many civilians who knew my husband and offered words of love and respect was essential. Finding people who did not judge, who simply had a kind word for Camillo, was invaluable.

I believe that speaking openly about what happened—especially when such an extreme act involves someone who wears a uniform—is crucial to breaking the silence, the shame, and in some cases the complicity that can exist in certain environments. Only in this way can healing truly begin and dignity be restored to those who are no longer with us.”

A message to those who wear a uniform

We have spoken about suicide among those who wear a uniform, a delicate topic often surrounded by silence and misunderstanding. What would you like to share with our readers—what thoughts or reflections would you like to bring to the attention of those who may not know this reality up close?

“Those who work in the armed forces carry an enormous burden on their shoulders, often invisible to others. Pressure, responsibility, and loneliness can sometimes become unbearable. That is why more attention, more listening, and more humanity are needed. To those who live this reality, I say: do not be afraid to ask for help. Seek out support groups, associations, or people who have lived through similar experiences, because those who have truly suffered can understand and can offer a word or a presence that makes a difference.

Always remember that beyond the uniform, you also wear the clothes of sons, husbands, wives, fathers, mothers, brothers, and sisters. You are not just an identification number: you are loved people, carrying dreams, fragilities, and hopes. As much as you may love your work and feel the weight of responsibility toward society, never forget that you are, above all, precious men and women to those who stand beside you.

I repeat this and will never stop repeating it: if something is wrong, if you feel something hurting your soul, do not allow that pain to take you away. True listening, timely psychological support, the possibility of speaking without fear of being judged—simply knowing that someone is there, that you are not alone, can change everything. Because you are not alone. Ask for help, speak up, do not be afraid to show your fragility. And to families I say: stay close, listen, do not judge. Your support can be the salvation of those you love.”

An appeal to institutions

In your view, what should institutions concretely do to be truly close to and supportive of those facing such profound and devastating pain as that linked to suicide? What actions, interventions, or changes could make a real difference in the daily lives of those who remain?

“We need a real, accessible support network, free from bureaucracy. We need training, awareness, and the concrete possibility of asking for help without fear of losing dignity or one’s job.

I envision a system that places the person at the center, offering listening, psychological counseling, and moments of dialogue, and that also involves families—because pain does not concern only those who wear the uniform, but everyone close to them.

Talking about suicide, pain, and mental health is essential to breaking the taboo. We need respectful communication that gives voice to those who have lived these experiences, helping them feel less alone and less wrong. I wish institutions were more present, more transparent, more genuine, and that they offered concrete, real support, not abandoning families and orphans to themselves.

In my experience, I often felt like a second-class widow, and this is unacceptable. I simply wish that the human value of those who work in the armed forces were recognized, because behind every uniform there is a person, with a story, relationships, and a life. I wish that the dignity of those who have suffered were remembered, that faith were placed in the power of solidarity and in truth. May no one ever feel alone, and may pain become hope for those who come after.”

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