I’ve Watched The Battle Of The Oranges Since I Was A Child: Here’s What It Really Feels Like

Written by: Lucia Ferrero, Ivrea, Italy

Date:  Tuesday, March 4, 2025 – Carnevale di Ivrea

Every year when Carnival comes around, people ask me why our town doesn’t just wear masks and dance like everyone else in Italy. I always laugh a little before answering. In Ivrea, we don’t dance.

We battle.

This morning, just before the first carts rolled into the square, I stood by the old stone bridge where I’ve watched the Battle of the Oranges since I was a child. The air was cold, sharp, and carried that faint smell of citrus that always seems to arrive before the fighting even starts.

The teams in their bright uniforms, Scarlet, Blue, Black, all with their own histories were already warming up, bouncing oranges in their palms like they were testing their weight. Across the piazza, the cart riders appeared, armored and ready, the horses stamping the ground as if they understood their role in the drama.

And then the signal rang out.

Within seconds, the square exploded into motion. Oranges flew so fast you could hear them whistle past your ears. The ground turned slippery with pulp. People on the carts hurled down volleys from above, while the teams on foot rushed forward with shields raised, shouting and laughing even as they took hits that would leave bright orange bruises tomorrow.

I caught one in the shoulder, a good, clean shot and the sting of it made me grin. That’s the thing outsiders never understand: it isn’t violence. It’s release. It’s memory. It’s the reenactment of the freedom our town once fought for, kept alive through three days of glorious, messy rebellion.

By late afternoon, the streets were running with juice, and everyone, spectators, fighters, even the horses, looked like they’d been painted in shades of sunset. And still, no one wanted to stop.

We’re not the biggest Carnival in Italy, and we’re certainly not the prettiest. Venice can keep its masks; Viareggio can keep its giant floats. Here in Ivrea, we have oranges, courage, and a tradition that feels like it belongs to every one of us.

Tomorrow, we’ll wake up a little sore, a little sticky, and very proud.

Because once a year, in this little corner of Piedmont, we throw fruit to remember who we are.