The ground is moving in Niscemi.
Not metaphorically. The clay soil beneath this town of 25,000 souls in Sicily's interior has been sliding for days now. What started as a fissure in the countryside has become a 5-kilometre gash, cutting more than 25 metres deep into the earth. Over a thousand people have been evacuated from their homes in just 24 hours, and that number keeps climbing as the evacuation zone expands.
I'm simplifying the geology here for clarity, but picture this: an entire hillside deciding it no longer wants to stay put.
The Storm That Broke the Silence
Between 20 and 21 January 2026, Cyclone Harry tore through the Mediterranean. The damage across Sicily, Sardinia, and Calabria exceeded 2 billion euros. Four people died. Over 300 remain missing . In Sicily alone, more than 100 kilometres of Ionian coastline lie devastated, and the rain—oh, the rain—turned Niscemi's clay plateau into something resembling wet soap on a tilted surface .
This wasn't the first cyclone to hit Sicily. It won't be the last.
Since 2018, six cyclonic events have struck Sicilian coasts . The climate here hasn't been changing—it's already changed. We're talking torrential rains, prolonged droughts, heat waves that cook the land, and storms that arrive with increasing brutality . The studies are clear. The evidence sits in flooded streets and cracked foundations.
Yet somehow, the national media barely noticed. The Council of Ministers took five days to declare a state of emergency and allocated an initial 100 million euros—for three regions, against 2 billion in damages .
That's not a typo.
A Disaster Foretold
Here's where the story turns from tragic to infuriating.
In 1997, nearly three decades ago, the same area of Niscemi experienced a similar landslide. Hundreds were displaced. An emergency was declared. Funds were allocated for stabilisation work. And then? Bureaucratic tangles. Legal disputes dragged out for years. The money evaporated without a single shovel hitting the ground.
Fast forward to March 2022. The Sicilian regional government, under then-Governor Nello Musumeci, approved an updated hydrogeological risk assessment for Niscemi. The document described the landslide zone as "active" . The town's western edge sat squarely in a red zone—highest risk .
Active. Red zone. These aren't ambiguous terms.
Yet no evacuations followed. No urgent interventions materialised. The regional civil protection service, which reports directly to the president's office, did nothing.
Now Musumeci, serving as Minister for Civil Protection, points fingers at local mayors. He claims they never properly communicated the danger. He's announced an administrative inquiry to determine why nothing happened since 1997 .
The irony hangs thick in the air.
The Paper Trail That Leads Nowhere
Let me walk you through the timeline, because the details matter.
In 2016, the Sicilian region submitted funding requests to Rome for Niscemi—3.2 million euros to stabilise the western slope, another 4.7 million for adjacent areas . Preliminary designs existed. But by 2018, no final projects had been delivered, and the funding window closed .
Between 1997 and 2002, the regional civil protection issued nine separate ordinances for "urgent interventions" in Niscemi . A contract was eventually signed. Then, in 2013, it was rescinded because the contractors couldn't complete the work .
From 2014 to 2023—spanning the Crocetta and Musumeci administrations—nothing happened .
In 2023, the regional civil protection allocated 10 million euros for new interventions . Those works haven't been completed either .
The pattern is unmistakable: warnings issued, funds allocated, projects abandoned, cycle repeated. And through it all, people kept living on unstable ground, trusting that someone, somewhere, was handling the situation.
Two Sets of Rules for One Territory
Now here's where things get properly absurd.
Niscemi isn't just a town with a landslide problem. Since 1991, it's hosted an American naval base occupying an area equivalent to 220 football pitches inside the Sughereta nature reserve—one of Sicily's last significant forests . In 2019, the MUOS system went live there: a geo-satellite communications network used exclusively by the US military .
The local population fought this installation for years. Peaceful protests, legal challenges, independent studies, even direct action. Activists warned since 2009 that placing military infrastructure on such geologically fragile terrain was reckless. They presented data. They commissioned their own assessments.
None of it mattered.
No bureaucratic delays for the base. No environmental objections that couldn't be overruled. The same regional government that couldn't manage to stabilise a hillside for three decades moved with remarkable efficiency when American interests were involved.
And less than six months ago? The Sicilian Region approved emergency stabilisation work for the MUOS base itself—because the concrete platform risked collapsing due to potential ground movement .
Read that again. The military base got emergency geological protection. The civilian population got evacuated.
The Texture of Abandonment
I want you to feel what this looks like on the ground.
In Niscemi, residents store water in rooftop tanks because reliable supply isn't guaranteed . Meanwhile, the nearby military base never runs short of potable water .
In summer 2025, a fire burned for days, destroying two-thirds of the Sughereta's forest—right up to the perimeter of the most heavily guarded military installation in the region.
The area is classified as a contaminated site (SIN) with elevated cancer mortality rates, yet authorities debated closing the local hospital. Into this same space, they installed equipment that contaminates groundwater and bathes the surroundings in electromagnetic radiation.
Young people leave constantly, seeking futures elsewhere. Young soldiers arrive constantly, guarding a base against the very community that hosts it.
The contrasts aren't subtle. They're architectural.
What Reconstruction Actually Means
Local administrators have already tipped their hand about priorities.
The focus, they say, will be restoring coastal tourist infrastructure before summer season begins . Structural interventions for everything else? Those can wait .
This tells you everything about how these territories are valued. The coastline isn't a place where people live and build relationships—it's an economic asset to be exploited through seasonal labour and privatised beach access . Reconstruction will serve those who profit from tourism, not necessarily those who lost their homes.
"Useless" pieces of territory risk being forgotten entirely.
The Real Question
The movements opposing the MUOS and the proposed Strait of Messina Bridge have articulated this clearly: the devastation unfolding in Sicily stems from suspended sovereignty . Territory has been ceded to large capital interests, to the military sector, and to a state that shows up to suppress dissent but vanishes when people need help .
The 15 billion euros earmarked for the Messina Bridge could secure territories, fund climate adaptation, and support genuine reconstruction. Independent geological studies could replace politically convenient assessments. A moratorium on speculative projects and military installations could give communities breathing room.
While the state remains absent, communities organise themselves. Local movements and solidarity networks have been restoring some semblance of normality since the first hours after the disaster.
A Lesson from the Clay
There's something I learned years ago, and Niscemi keeps teaching it: territories belong to those who live in them .
The presences and absences of these past days confirm that lesson with painful clarity . How to assert and guarantee the right of communities to govern their own land—that's the challenge already staring us in the face .
The ground is still moving in Niscemi. The question is whether anyone in power will move with it.
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