The Best Friend I Never Had

Dear Willy Monteiro Duarte,

It’s strange to write to someone I never met. And it is even stranger because I will never get to meet you. At least not in this life. And yet it seems to me that I’ve known you for a lifetime. The rush of affection I feel for you is like you were my little brother.

Hey, Will, how is it up there?

I don’t know if you have heard our screams at your funeral, I don’t know if you have seen the silent tears falling from our eyes. I don’t know. And I will never know. It was windy, you know?, the day of your funeral.

Anyways, I hope the wind was blowing in your direction, carrying our words and love to you.

How could you have ever imagined that that night, the 6th of September 2020, was going to be your last? Wasn’t it just another normal night out with your friends?

You had a long day of work at that restaurant where you were still learning all the tricks to become a great chef. You enjoyed it. And it also helped your family to pay the bills. After your shift ended, you decided to have a drink at a pub, at Colleferro (Near Rome, Italy), with three of your closest friend.

I wonder what passed through your mind when those four guys, all older and bigger than you, started punching and kicking you. It went on for twenty interminable minutes. They were trained fighters who were punching to kill; and you, my dear Willy, were a skinny guy who had only intervened to defend your friend from getting killed by those four animals.

The only thing you had kicked in your life was a ball, with the dream of one day playing for A.C. Roma. And now you will never be able to realize that goal, because four, disgusting guys decided that you had to die. What was your mistake? That you were in the wrong place at the wrong time? Or that you had the “wrong” skin tone?

For your heroism, that they couldn’t possibly understand, they ended up killing you. How could a black son of immigrants stand in the way of four white, "strong" Italian men?

Dear Willy, I know that you already know this. But let me reiterate it: you died as a hero. A true one. You gave your life to defend a friend of yours from getting mauled by a group of animals. And not once you threw a punch. Because you believed in the power of talking and in the power of peace and love.

About most people, you only say good things when they are gone. But you were described as an angel way before that damned night.

Your friendly smile and great sense of humor made you loved by everyone who spent some time with you.

Oh, dear Willy, I wish that your assassins, Gabriele and Marco Bianchi, Francesco Belleggia and Mario Pincarelli, had talked with you for just five minutes instead of starting punching and kicking immediately. I am sure it would have gone differently. But history is not made of ifs and ors. It is made of facts. And the fact is that you are dead.

Tears are sometimes an inappropriate response to death. When a life has been lived completely honestly, or just completely, the correct response to death should be a smile and love.

I know you lived honestly, spreading love everywhere you went. But what angers me the most is that you were not given the opportunity to live completely. You were not given the opportunity to spread more love.

Dear Willy, at your funeral we all wore white clothes, as was requested by your family. White, in fact, is a symbol of mourning in Capo Verde, Africa, from where your parents emigrated to give you and your siblings the hope of a better future. A future you have been robbed of.

But white clothes are also the symbol of hope and purity, to celebrate your kind soul. You were an angel, and now you have returned among angels. Ciao Willy.

Dear Willy, I promise you that we won’t forget you.

Dear Willy, you had to suffer a barbaric and unjust death, and we cannot let your story fall into oblivion.

Dear Willy, your story has taught us that we cannot rest, we cannot ignore the hate some people have instilled in their hearts. We have to understand and fight against the groups of people who cultivate the mythology of violence, bigotry, and racism.

Dear Willy, the pain is too big. The void inside me seems unbridgeable.

I am tired, Willy. I am tired, and I am sorry. But these late regrets are useless: They won’t bring you back. Nothing will. But I promise that I will do everything I can to tell your story to as many people I can. And I will do everything I can to raise awareness on this situation. You gave your life to defend a friend. The least I can do is use your story to save other people from being attacked or brutally killed by other racists.

Dear Willy, you left my heart aching, but you also left a great teaching: There is no greater love than giving you life for your friends. There is no fear, no force that can suppress love.

Dear Willy, I am sure you already know this, but your family is proud of you. You were their anchor, their beloved child, their hero. And in their immeasurable pain, they can console themselves by knowing that you died as the hero you are. You died to save a friend from the beating of four despicable animals.

Today I pray for you. I pray for your sincere and honest smile.

Dear Willy, thank you for having entered my life. Thank you for having taught us what courage and love really are.

Dear Willy, we will give justice to your family. It’s a promise.

Thomas Edison’s last words were: “It’s very beautiful over there.”

I don’t know where there is, but I believe it’s somewhere, and I hope it’s beautiful.

May you rest in peace, Willy.

Willy Duerte Monteiro (20/01/1999–06/09/2020)

Final note

After the brutal killing, the only thing the families of the four killers, could say was: “What is all this fuss? He was only a black immigrant.”

This is all too common, but we cannot grow accustomed to it. We must not become accustomed to it. Why should you get killed for the color of your skin?

On the death of a friend, we should consider that the fates through confidence have devolved on us the task of a double living, that we have henceforth to fulfill the promise of our friend’s life also, in our own, to the world. Henry David Thoreau

Please, dear reader, don’t just read the article and then go on to forget it. Please think deeply about this. And encourage other people to think about this. Please take action. Sadly, words alone do nothing. We need to take action. Now.

I know that I want to do something, and this is why I invite you to donate to make justice for Willy and help his family.

If you have the economic means, please consider donating to this GoFundMe.

If not, please share the story and talk about this fact in your local communities. It is only by discussing and talking about these problems that we can come up with a solution and move towards a better future.

A future in which no Willy has to die.