Blood of Naples
Arriving in Naples feels like diving into a whirlwind of life, history, and faith, all watched over by the silent, menacing presence of Mount Vesuvius. Streets paved in the historical center by the ancient Greeks now pulse with scooters and voices, each corner reveals layers of stories from centuries ago. Naples is a city where the past and present are entangled together, and I am here to understand what holds it all in place.
Finally, I arrived in Naples with Claudia, my life companion, in this city under the shadow of Mount Vesuvius, whose eruptions follow long periods of calm. To have come here meant navigating a torrent of bustling traffic — a chaotic dance of cars, countless scooters, buses, and taxis, with no clear lanes in sight. If you can make it through all this, you can make it anywhere. Naples is a city layered with both surface and underground history, its ancient streets laid down by the first Greek settlers of Neapolis are still alive beneath the modern city. Like much of Italy, Naples struggles to adapt to the demands of the contemporary world, constantly faced with the overwhelming weight of its past. Is there too much history? Too many stories to contain?
Tales of Naples
Everyone seems to have a tale about Naples, even those who have never set foot here. The city stirs the imagination, fueling endless stereotypes and a stream of anecdotes, each more outlandish than the last. Now, we are part of this whirlwind, and I am determined to understand what holds this society together, what creates the essence of Naples. I want to take the city as a metaphor for Italy itself — a European laboratory, often slow to change, yet, occasionally, ahead of its time.
After my introduction at the Political Science Department of Federico II, the University which proudly celebrates its 800th anniversary this year, I found myself in a maze of buildings — a house composed of two monasteries, one stacked above the other, with a magnificent cloister above. Rosa Gatti, a political sociologist at the department, graciously accepted to become my guide, offering advice on everything from shopping and organizing a metro pass to visiting the local thermal baths.
San Gennaro’s Miracle
One suggestion was particularly enlightening, as it introduced us to the deep currents of popular Neapolitan religion and superstition. She recommended a visit to the Duomo on September 19, to participate in the celebration of the Mass of San Gennaro, the city’s patron saint, and the miraculous liquefaction of his blood — preserved in vials after his beheading by the Romans — at the end of the service.
San Gennaro was not immediately canonized, and the Church initially kept a certain distance from the reverence he inspired, as it bore traces of pagan devotion. Yet over time, the Church embraced this popular belief: if the blood liquefies, it is seen as a good omen for the coming year; if it does not, misfortune is feared. San Gennaro did his work and his blood was liquified, and the Cathedral started to clap.
Mystical Bond of Blood
A week later, Roberto Saviano, the outspoken Neapolitan writer under police protection for exposing the local Mafia in his work “Gomorrah”, gave a dramaturgic reading at the Teatro Bellini entitled “Sanghenapule” (Blood of Naples). He recounted how, in 472 AD, Gennaro’s intercession spared Naples from the devastating eruption of Mount Vesuvius, which had threatened to engulf the city, while its ashes reached as far as Constantinople.
Vesuvius is often imagined as a demonic force, tied to the legend of Lucifer, the fallen angel cast out to execute God’s justice where His Divine Mercy alone could not suffice. The volcano, both creator and destroyer, was said to have been stopped by the saint’s hand. From that moment, a mystical bond of blood was formed between San Gennaro’s miracles and Vesuvius’s eruptions — an enigmatic dialectical connection between good and evil, soil-fertility and destructive forces, between the deity and his dark counterpart, the exterminator was formed.
A City of Blood and Resilience
In his performance, Saviano delved into the heart of Naples, a city of blood and molten lava, where mystery and contradiction live side by side. He traced the city’s history in a fluid exchange between the heavenly and the subterranean. It is the blood of San Gennaro that melts each year, renewing the pact between the saint and his people.
It is the blood of the first Christian martyrs, but also that of the “secular martyrs” of the Parthenopean Republic, who, at the end of the 18th century, fought for democratic ideals — like the right of every Neapolitan to see the Sea from their home — against Bourbon oppression. If the Republicans had renounced their ideals, they would have been pardoned from decapitation once they were defeated. None did so.
It is also the blood of mass emigration from the late 19th to the early 20th century, as millions of Italians crossed the ocean in search of a better life. It is the blood spilled under the bombs of World War II, or during the heroic “Four Days of Naples” against the Nazis, and the bloodshed in the ambushes of the Camorra, the local crime syndicate.
Indeed, I have landed in a city rich with history and imagery, and under the calm force of a volcano enthroned above everything!
Gianni D’Amato is a Professor at the University of Neuchâtel, the director of the nccr – on the move, and the Swiss Forum for Migration and Population Studies (SFM).
