#BocconiCorrespondents. From Brussels, Alessandro Gropelli

I come from the industrial province of Brescia, in Italy, but for 10 years I have lived and worked and Brussels, the capital of the European Union. From the town of Chiari, passing through the Liceo Classico in Brescia and Bocconi in Milan, after almost a year in Tokyo I finally landed in Brussels. And from Brussels I am writing to you, shut in the house, in a lockdown in the multicultural district of Ixelles, where the president of the city council is a lady - from Brescia (Monica Frassoni).

The dream

My European dream was born in long and meditative summer afternoons, in the shadow of the Lombard plane trees, riding a bicycle. I wanted to see the world, and I wanted to experience Europe. Now I'm in that dreamed Europe, and I've been working on it for a decade. Today, I am Strategy and Communication Director for the European telecommunications association, ETNO.
Bocconi University helped me get there. It is (was?) a Europe built on the promise that young people could study anywhere, and then use their national passport to work, anytime anywhere. It is (was?) a Europe based on low-cost flights, on open borders, on learning at least two or three languages. A Europe where you might find a young man or woman of any nationality, and maybe have children, and maybe live between more than one country.

The illness

For a few, and perhaps only a few, that Europe existed, exists (still). But then came the coronavirus. The elderly who walked under the plane trees of Chiari fell ill among the first. Then the others fell ill: the adults, and also many young people. Lombardy first became red, then yellow. Then all of Italy. The flights have stopped. Passports no longer confer so many rights. The borders have closed. And many couples, many European families were taken by surprise, separated by invisible, yet impassable walls. On the wrong side of history, unwittingly. Immigration (legal immigration) no longer exists. National egoisms quarrel at the tables of the European Council, while "federal" institutions, the Commission and Parliament, struggle to carry out shared solutions, and to make themselves heard by citizens. In the chaos of individual national interests, we can hardly hear Europe's voice anymore. Here too, in the now silent streets of Ixelles, where the few passersby speak French, Flemish, Italian, Spanish and all other European languages. The European district, a few kilometers away, seems very distant and is now also suspended in the lockdown desert.

The healing?

It is early, perhaps, to hope for recovery. But it is not too early to plan for it. In the empty streets of Bruxells, every evening, at 8, we all look out from the balconies to applaud. London also happens at the same time. And in Madrid, always in the evening. And in Rome, in Milan, at lunchtime. We applaud all our doctors and nurses, we applaud public health. Let's start from here. From public health, which is a beautiful thing, a European thing. Very European. So let's plan this healing together. That it is an Italian, European healing. We can go back to flying, to forget the borders that divide us today. We can bring families together, and give ourselves new opportunities, break through that narrow horizon represented by the walls of our quarantined houses and our national borders. Only when we return to European dreams will we know that we are truly healed.