Here in Ischia, Easter is deeply felt. Every town has its own traditions, as it should be. Today, I want to tell you about the traditions of Forio — the ones I carry in my heart.

It’s a whole week that feels lighter, filled with festive spirit. In every family, the preparation of “tortano” (a savory Easter bread) begins, wheat for the “pastiera” (traditional ricotta and wheat pie) is cooked, aromas and essences are bought: orange blossom water, millefiori essence.

Walking through the narrow streets, you can experience a fragrance that speaks of home — of hands kneading dough, of waiting.

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During Holy Week, every day has its own well-defined rituals, rooted in both daily life and religious practice. On Palm Sunday, one week before Easter, small bags of lentils are distributed to children; they will be sprouted in the dark and later used for decoration. On Holy Wednesday, the day of the Schoolchildren’s Easter Precept, ovens all over Forio bake fragrant pastiere, and in the evening the ritual of the Washing of the Feet is held.

In the evenings, the streets of Forio fill with footsteps, rehearsals, emotions. The main roads become a stage for the Passion of Christ. On Good Friday, the solemn “Actus Tragicus” takes place, a living re-enactment where the crowd is moved, transported in time. Are we in Ischia or in Jerusalem? Soldiers in Roman attire, Herod’s court dancers, high priests, the Apostles, Mary, Martha, Magdalene, Veronica, Simon of Cyrene, thieves, Jesus himself… and behind them, the real people, the true crowd.

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The Via Crucis of Forio is not just a performance: it’s an army of emotions and the participation of an entire community. The crowd watches — some stand still, others follow the procession, often getting lost in the multitude.

Once the re-enactment ends, the critiques and comparisons begin, along with the memories of past editions. And yet, as with everything that is alive, perfection doesn’t exist — only improvement. Like a pinch of salt in a sweet recipe, critiques, when constructive, enhance the beauty of what already exists.

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Easter morning, however, holds a different kind of magic.

As a child, still in my pajamas, my brother and I would run into the garden searching for the “Nests” left by the Easter Bunny: chocolate eggs, candies, colorful sugar-coated almonds. We always found them quickly, because the tall grass couldn’t quite hide the nest.

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And then… there is the Angel’s Run.

Approaching the town, you can already feel it’s a festive day: people move quickly, streets fill with hurried footsteps. Those familiar with the tradition know exactly where to stand.

The story is simple and universal. It is Easter Sunday. Mary has seen her Son die, tortured and innocent, on Good Friday. Now, an angel announces His resurrection to her with great urgency. But how can one believe in such joy after so much sorrow?

The chant rises:

“Regina Coeli, laetare, laetare, alleluia, alleluia, alleluia…” — the notes grow longer and longer, as if to emphasize the truth of those words.

Three times the angel repeats it, three times hope is sown in the Mother’s heart.

Mary moves forward slowly, hesitantly, as if each step were an act of faith. Until — at the very place where she had once wept — the black veil of death and mourning falls away. She sees Him. She sees the Son, alive.

She runs towards Him.

The bells ring out in celebration, the sky is filled with colorful confetti. A single cry of joy rises: Forio is rejoicing.

“Ora pro nobis Deum. Alleluia. Gaude et laetare…”

And together with her, we too run towards life.