News from Italy
May 1 and Hawthorn Blossom
by Andira Vitale
In the early hours of the morning, before the sun had fully revealed itself, the scent of flowers drifted through the narrow streets of a small town. As spring blossomed with an impatient whiteness at the tips of branches, young women stepped out of their homes holding bunches of hawthorn. This was not merely the beginning of a season; it was a remembrance filtered through centuries.
Once, during spring festivals held in honour of Flora, flowers were distributed, and the nights were illuminated by the fires of Walpurgis Night. People celebrated the awakening of nature; love, hope, and rebirth sprouted all at once. Back then, a flower was simply a flower.
But time changes the meaning of certain days.
In northern France, in the small industrial town of Fourmies, May 1 is no longer only the day of spring but also of labour. In this place where factory chimneys paint the sky grey, life is as thin and fragile as cotton fibres. Shifts begin at five in the morning and last until the darkness of evening. Wages are low; hope is often a postponed demand.
The morning of May 1, 1891, begins like this. But that day is different.
Maria Blondeau, born as Émélie Blondeau in 1873 in La Neuvillette (Marne) and who died in Fourmies on May 1, 1891, was a worker in a cotton factory and is considered the most symbolic figure among those who died in the Fourmies massacre of 1891.
Maria Blondeau, who works in a cotton factory, blends into the crowd holding a bunch of hawthorn. Her fiancé, Kléber Giloteaux, had given it to her early that morning. This small gesture has not yet revealed the profound meaning it will carry throughout the day. For Maria, this flower is a quiet expression of love; perhaps also a simple promise for the future.
The town is lively. Since the mid-19th century, it has had a large working-class population and has experienced economic and demographic growth thanks to the expansion of the cotton industry. This industry was particularly known for low wages and long working hours. To this strong working-class presence was added the establishment of a local branch of the newly founded French Workers’ Party, which quickly gained momentum and contributed to the town’s politicisation. As a result, the demonstration on May 1, 1891, saw a large turnout.
Workers take to the streets, voicing their demands: shorter working hours, a more humane life. An eight-hour workday was a great, even dangerous dream for that time.
At first, the march is almost like a festival. Hawthorn blossoms float in the air, and young women carry the lightness of spring. But in the afternoon, this lightness gives way to tension. Arrests occur. The crowd tightens. Voices rise.
Maria is at the front of the procession. Among the group of young women known as the “May Carriers,” she continues walking with her flower in hand. Perhaps at that moment, the meaning of the flower is beginning to change, but no one is yet aware of it.
Hours pass. And then, without any warning, a moment comes. Gunshots ring out.
The square suddenly disperses; sounds, screams, and hurried footsteps blend. That gentle spring morning turns into a harsh evening. Some fall to the ground. And that day, the hawthorn branches are stained with blood for the first time.
Maria Blondeau remains there in the square. In her hand, she still holds the hawthorn bouquet, the symbol of spring. Those white flowers, which had been a symbol of love just hours earlier, now tell another story: loss, Resistance, and a memory that must not be forgotten. Maria’s image -the silhouette of a young working woman holding a blood-stained bunch of hawthorn- gradually becomes a symbol. She neither shouts nor chants slogans; she stands. Yet that stance is stronger than many words.
From that day on, May 1 is no longer just a date on the calendar.
Flowers are still given. People still offer each other hawthorn branches. But within this small gesture now lie two stories: one of love, the other of labour. And from that day on, these two stories are never separated again.
Spring returns every year. Hawthorn trees bloom once more. And their red is remembered in every season.