Archives for posts with tag: Italy

February 25, 2013

She just turned sixty this winter. She used to earn 900 euros before the crisis, working as a nurse in difficult neighborhoods of a big city. Because of the crisis she now makes 400 euros per month. Yet she pays all of her taxes and welfare contributions. She has been working since she was 17. In the work place she has often been underpaid and underappreciated and once, even sexually harassed. She recently injured herself again and she is self-employed like a lot of Italians, so when she takes a day off she makes no money. She decided her day would be best spent resting at home rather than voting, like 25 percent of Italians today. She is my mother.

He is turning seventy this summer. He has been peaking outside the window trying to decide whether to go vote, waiting for the snow to stop. In the end, he goes out. He has always voted for the Right. He wishes he could vote for a better conservative candidate, but the leader is the only man that seems to be able to hold the Right-wing coalition together. His pension was cut because of austerity. He is angry with Monti’s government, or, as he calls him, the Professor. None voted for him. So he votes for Berlusconi instead, like a quarter of Italians. This man is my father.

He sent his ballot via mail two weeks ago. He votes from abroad, where he is about to graduate from a prestigious American university. He knows there are no jobs for him back home – he has not given up on looking, but he knows. He voted for the Left-wing party. He has always voted for the Left, but never for the larger Democratic Party. He finds their leader utterly uncharismatic and spineless, their agenda bland and largely irrelevant. He voted in the primary election too, even though he knows the party is a concoction of apparatchiks, anachronistic trade unionists and bipolar Catholics who throw a tantrum whenever immigration reform or gay marriage is brought up. His biggest dream one day is to be able to move back home if he wants, or at least to be able to avoid explaining why a sexopath is again Prime Minister to all of his foreign friends. Like twenty-five percent of Italians he voted for the Left. This person is me.

This Christmas he celebrated his new job contract. For the first time in a year, instead of a one-month renewal, his contract got renewed for four months. His family celebrated with a champagne bottle. With a youth unemployment rate above 30 percent, any job that pays slightly above minimum wage is like a status-item. I don’t know whom he voted for. Maybe he did vote for Grillo’s party, a party whose stated aim is to make the political system implode from the inside. All the exit polls underestimated Grillo’s results by a margin of 5 percent. Some people are too ashamed of the party they vote for, because they are voting out of anger. No one seems to know who these people are, but they are 25 percent of us. One of them might be my brother.

We have been sleepwalking as a family, as a nation. Over the past two decades, as we were searching for the reasons of our decline we have blamed the euro, the Muslim terrorists, jobs outsourced to China, earthquakes and global warming. We have searched for our enemy among the American investment bankers, the Brussels bureaucrats, the Vatican hypocrites and the Moroccan baby escorts. But on February 25, 2013 we woke up and realized that our enemy could be found within the walls of our houses and sitting across from us in our offices. Our enemy had been there all along. We were too busy yelling and watching TV and talking past each other. On February 25, 2013 we finally met the enemy. Our enemy is us.

Sto leggendo un libro parecchio interessante, intitolato “Chissà come chiameremo questi anni” edito da Sellerio. Il libro (postumo) raccoglie le grandi indagini realizzate da Giuliana Saladino, una giornalista de “L’Ora” – quotidiano progressista pubblicato a Palermo fino all’inizio degli anni Novanta e che annoverò tra le sue firme Sciascia, Guttuso e Quasimodo (giusto per citare i nomi più famosi).

Il libro raccoglie una serie d’indagini sociali e reportage che raccontano con una voce estremamente limpida i cambiamenti sociali della Sicilia e dell’Italia tra gli anni Settanta e Novanta. Dalla speculazione edilizia, alle sperequazioni sociali e i delitti di mafia, il libro raccoglie quelle pagine di giornale che il giorno dopo sarebbero finite per incartare il pesce (come scritto nella prefazione) e che oggi sono conservate per riproporci uno spaccato di quello che eravamo in altri tempi. E come forse siamo anche oggi.

Da “Quanto spende, Signora?” (p.91)

Rivolgo la domanda alla moglie di un bigliettaio […]

Al primo del mese lei ha dunque in casa tutto il necessario [dopo la spesa allo spaccio aziendale n.d.r.] e 83 mila lire [dopo trattenute dalla busta paga n.d.r.]. Come le spende?  35 mila di casa, 30 mila la cambiale della macchina, 3.000 la rata della macchina da cucire, 10 mila di acqua luce gas, e ogni tre mesi il telefono. Faccia il conto… fanno 78 mila lire … mi restano 5 mila lire e ce ne devo aggiungere altre dieci per pagare il prestito di 100 mila che ci ha fatto una di queste casse per impiegati: su centomila se ne tengono 30 mila. Ladri. E’ stato l’anno scorso, che ho avuto un aborto: 40 mila lire. La cassa soccorso dell’azienda di mio marito mi paga solo la visita ostetrica più 5 mila lire, e abbiamo dovuto fare questo prestito a interesse.

Che fate la domenica? Ce ne andiamo al mare, dalle parti di Terrasini. Ci divertiamo moltissimo, arrostiamo la carne là stesso, abbiamo l’ombrellone e la tendina per spogliarsi, i bambini impazziscono di felicità.

I bambini chiedono soldi?  Sanno che non ce ne sono e non ne chiedono. Quando usciamo li avverto: non si compra niente. E il piccolo fa tutta la strada dicendomi “mammina io sono bravo, ciliegie non ne domando” poi vede le fragole: “mammina io sono bravo, non ne voglio fragole” E così per il cono, per le banane, per le noccioline.

Forse perché mi ricorda molto mia madre, il modo in cui faceva (e adesso, a quattro anni dalla pensione continua a fare) la spesa e quello che lei ci diceva prima che uscissimo di casa, però credo che questa storia di giugno 1969 rimanga anche oggi la storia di molte famiglie italiane, come si puo’ evincere dai dati Istat rilasciati qualche giorno fa.

Da “L’imprenditore diffidente” (p.132)

I nostri interessi – dice [S.M. piccolo imprenditore n.d.r.] – sono completamente diversi da quelli della Confindustria. Noi cerchiamo alleati, certi alleati, e a noi non può stare bene il discorso di Agnelli, presidente appunto della Confindustria, oltre che della Fiat, il quale porta avanti un discorso che secondo me è molto pericoloso. Cosa dice Agnelli? Partendo dal parassitismo, dagli sprechi, dalla disamministrazione imperante, finisce per sparare a zero sulle partecipazioni statali, mira a privilegiare il privato sul pubblico e a quei livelli il privato significa soltanto monopolio”.

“Che alleanze cercate? Intanto da un po’ di tempo a questa parte, fatto abbastanza recente, cerchiamo un dialogo col movimento operaio. Anche qui troviamo delle difficoltà. Non perché non ci sia una reale volontà d’intesa, ma direi che è un’intesa su basi sbagliate. Secondo me è da respingere il discorso totalmente paternalistico del movimento operaio nei confronti della piccola e media impresa. Vengono a parlarci di “momento privilegiato” della piccola e media impresa da parte del sindacato. E che vuol dire? Che pago di meno l’operaio? Che non mi faranno le lotte sindacali? È paternalistico nei nostri confronti, è rinunciatario da parte loro. I tempi cambiano, la società cambia, oggi il discorso serio e alternativo sarebbe quello di porre l’operaio come protagonista della piccola e media impresa, di coinvolgerlo in prima persona nella partecipazione alla programmazione. Questa oggi è la via nuova, il resto è demagogia di chi si accorge solo adesso della nostra esistenza e vuole “salvarci”.

Ora, questo articolo venne pubblicato il 7 giugno 1975. Non aggiungo altro, solo un link ad un articolo del Sole 24Ore sulle diatribe recenti sull’Articolo 18.

Piccolo bonus: una foto della chiesa di San Giovanni agli Eremiti a Palermo, giusto per ricordare che a volte nel nostro paese abbiamo la bellezza sotto gli occhi ma non ce ne accorgiamo.

I am still battling with jet-lag and catching up on the sleep that grad school has deprived me of for the past 5 months. It’s good to be home. Good-ish. After dealing with reading depressing news about Italy’s imminent implosion for months, now I get to be immersed in national hysteria 24/7. Awesome!

The other day some CEO from a big supermarket chain was on TV saying how sales in supermarkets have gone down by 6% from last year, marking the worst decline in 50 years (really? I did not know our nonexistent supermarkets collected statistics back in the 1960). In particular, sales of red meat have gone down while sales of eggs and beans have gone up, or so he claimed, suggesting that either Italy is on the cusp of a vegetarian revolution or Italians are buckling up for a very lean Christmas. His voice adds to the chorus line of customers in taped in shops while lamenting the pitiful state of the nation, entrepreneurs whining that the government is not doing enough, our trade unions that are living in some Dickensian parallel industrial universe when our factories are all shutting down by the minute, homeowners impoverished by having to pay 150 euros in yearly property taxes on their first house (the horror!) and on top of all, our beloved politicians from the left and right doing what they do best: crying “Social Butchery” (Italian for “We don’t know what to do or say and would rather not do anything about this”) from the travelling shit show that is the Italian Parliament.

It appears to me that Italians firmly believe that if we are deep in the shit it is either none’s fault or someone else’s fault. Some enlightened citizens have been all too quick to blame the political class for the mess we’re in, as if those got where they are by self-appointment. None seems to have voted for these politicians (although, truth be told, we actually did not pick candidates but had to vote for a list in the last election thanks to our new electoral law, called ‘the pigsty‘ by the same MP that sponsored it). Some other enlightened citizens like to say Berlusconi is the cause of all of this, and while I tend to agree to some extent, I cannot ignore that Mr B. is the toxic by-product of our dis-functional politics (this in and of itself could be the subject of a longer post, some background). I am also not deluded enough to think that if our left-wing politicians could not win an election and keep a government together for more than 15 months when the alternative was a philandering clown marred in sexual and corruption scandals, it must be that they are also not very capable. Everyone seems to agree, however, that the Euro must be the cause of all this, to which I like to point out that if we still had our own currency it would probably be worth less than toilet paper right now. In fact, we had a major speculative crisis in 1992. Let me fish out some news article from those days (11/09/1992):

Global recession apart, Italy has two major problems: a massive public debt (much higher than that allowed by the Maastricht treaty) and uncompetitive labour costs. Source: here

It seems that twenty years have passed and nothing has changed. Our political class supposedly went through some major regeneration (on paper) but still nothing has changed.

I was slightly irked by all of this. It seems that a large portion of the Italian population is engaging in a national competition to stick their head into the sand while also waxing lyrical about how someone else is the cause of their misfortune. If this crisis has done anything is to hold a mirror to our faces and revealed us for what we have become: a nation that is morally and financially bankrupt.

To have a proof that we are morally bankrupt, it is enough to watch this video shot the day after some model citizens torched a whole Roma camp, after a rumor (later revealed to be false) was spread that a local teenager was raped by two Roma men. Pogrom,  Italian style. Condemnation flew in from all sides (minus those scumbags that sit on the right-hand side of our Parliament and their sycophants) and this was archived as an anomalous episode. Until a couple of days later a neo-nazi shot two Senegalese street vendors dead in Florence. Clearly we seem to have found that someone else who is the cause for our problems.

It seems to me that we have become a society where none is ever at fault for things that go wrong, none is ever responsible, none ever wants to pick up the tab for fixing things, because our country is, in the end, not ours: it is some bottomless pit we can keep taking without putting things in. Suffice to say that Italy has the highest tax evasion rate in all of Western Europe, after Greece (YAY for Greece, for not making us look bad!):

Tax fraud is estimated to equal more than 20 percent of Italy’s annual economic output. From more than 41 million tax returns filed in 2010, fewer than 1 percent of Italians reported income greater than $135,000 (Washington Post)

According to the book “Soldi Rubati” taxes have gone up by 12.5 % in the past 30 years. If everyone paid taxes and we could cut payroll taxes, each salaried worker would get 275 euros per month (3300 euros in a year approx). Meanwhile:

There are 200,000 Italians who own luxury cars, but they’re telling the taxman that they have an annual income of between €20,000 and €50,000. One Italian claimed to have an income of €500 a year, but managed to run five Ferraris (source)

So where am I going with this? This debt crisis is not only a problem of economics and fiscal rigor, but a chance to turn ourselves around. We are either at the lowest point but looking up, or we are on an irreversible path towards global irrelevance and moral and financial impoverishment. Italian debt exploded in the 80s partly because of high global interest rates because of the various oil and global economic crises, partly because our political machine kept banking on macroeconomic tricks (currency devaluations etc…) to keep us going and beautify our deficit problems without having to come up with political solutions (for a more in-depth analysis, you can read here).

This crisis can be our way out of this vicious circle. If we got everyone to pay taxes (and apparently they have a game plan to do this) we might have a GDP that is 20% higher.  There is clearly a way out. Now that we are done with the economic austerity, we need moral austerity. The economic and moral case is clear and the solutions are all there, all it takes is responsible politics.

(Bonus track: advert on tax evasion currently running on national TV. Hint if you do not speak Italian: it shows different kind of animal/plant parasites and ends with a social parasite.)

I went to watch the movie “The Help” with some other people in my programme yesterday. The movie is very good, but one scene made my mind wander and would eventually result in this insomnia-induced blog post. The main character’s family (and domestic help) all gathered in the living room to watch the news of JFK’s death.

Being in the States on the tenth anniversary of 9/11 prompted a similar reaction in my head, as I tried to piece together the last ten years of my life in relation to the various events of History I have had the fortune to witnessed.

Italy, 11 September 2001

I am putting on my boy scout uniform (ha, now you know my dirty secret!). In my town the boy scouts are responsible for providing a human cordon for a religious procession that takes place every year. It’s a sticky late summer afternoon and at 3 pm I am watching Ally McBeal on TV. I am already indifferent to the Catholic Church and its obsolete rituals, but for the sake of tradition I just put that uniform on. It is around 15:45 pm and we are late. The Ally McBeal episode is interrupted by news footage of planes flying into the twin towers. I do not think much of it, it all seems distant and surreal to me so I just hurry up and leave the house.

London, 15 February 2003

I was studying in Wales and kids in my (very liberal, tree-hugging, fantastic) school organised buses to join the anti-Iraq war protest in London. The other students are all more politically aware than me and more outspoken against the Blair-Bush decision to invade Iraq. I am really puzzled and do not know what to think. Having grown up in a politically-conservative family, my political journey towards the left had been one of self-questioning a lot of what I had been taught and exercise critical thinking. I was jealous of my friends for their unshaken beliefs. On 15 February approximately one million people went down to protest in London, the biggest protest ever recorded in the history of the city. On that day, it is estimated that between six and ten million people around the world protested against the decision to invade Iraq. I was one of them.

Cairo, July 2007

I finally  managed to get an internship in an international organization. It is my first day and my supervisor is showing me the ropes. As I sit at my desk doing a press review of regional newspapers, I can see the waiting room where five/six families of Iraqi refugees are waiting for their resettlement interview to go to the United States. I suddenly feel like history is not something you just witness on TV. I remember all the doubts I had when I marched in London four years before. I was right, but I did not know it back then.

Benghazi, April 2011

I have always thought of myself as a pacifist. It seemed a pretty obvious thing to me. Whenever asked, I would just say that war is wrong in that it violates the sanctity of human life. It had all been a purely intellectual exercise, that pacifism of mine. I am working in a transit centre for displaced people in Libya. It’s Easter Sunday and we have a bit of a management crisis. The camp is full to over twice its capacity and people are getting edgy. I call my family to wish them a Happy Easter and to tell them that everything is ok. I ask them what they are having for lunch and I secretly wish I could be there. I feel bad my parents are worried about me. A few minutes later my colleague and I are sandwiched in between one hundred angry people and a security man armed to its teeth. We try to talk to the people to diffuse the tension and avoid that the security man starts shooting his machine gun into the air, just like he did a few minutes ago. I am standing right in between them and this man, his machine gun twenty cm away from my face. Unarmed people keep pushing me towards the machine gun. I finally know why I am a pacifist. You put a weapon in a person’s hand and he/she thinks they are God’s gift to the planet.

New Jersey, 11 September 2011

It is the ten-year anniversary of September 11. It’s all over the news. The day goes by in a haze because I have one of the worst hangovers of my life. I am barely able to process things. I quickly look at the walls of my Facebook friends, people I have met in the past ten years. For some of them 9/11 was the day America lost its innocence, they mostly leave in the West. For others it was the trigger of a spiral of death and hate, they mostly leave in the Middle East. My friend C says “Number of people killed on all sides during or as a consequence of 9/11: 131,000 (low estimate). If I had to go in front of God or a Galactic Council as a representative of humankind and justify this, I’d be ashamed“. For me, 9/11 marks the tenth anniversary of the day I became a pacifist.

So, I have been meaning to write something about this before but never quite got round it. I have been leaving abroad now for 7 of the past 10 years. Inevitably, I have gone out with a number of people who are not Italian like myself (I’ll leave it to you to guess how many. If you get it right, I’ll buy you a yearly subscription to the Reader’s Digest. Hint: It’s less than a 3 digit number).

I am always slightly irked by the reaction of some gay people I have met and/or have gone out on dates with. Because Italian men are usually associated with a number of (positive?) stereotypes, I am often under the impression that I am being placed somewhere on the spectrum of potential Italian gay man stereotypes which spans roughly as follows: suave latin man with hairy chest and golden cross meets elitist european meets queer fashionista meets mama’s boy.

Of course self-righteous me is quite horrified at the idea of my ‘self’ being compressed and pigeonholed into a cliché, although I guess it is normal that people try to decipher your identity through some cognitive shortcuts such as stereotypes. I have actually done that to others a number of times without noticing.

Anyways, I was a LGBT mixer (or, as I like to call it, a fruit salad event) in the US last week. I had to go through a bit of the usual Italian Gay Manometer business but in addition, thanks to having survived the Egyptian revolution, I get to add an extra layer of revolutionary je ne sais pas quoi to the equation. At one point I felt people looked at me as if I am some kind of war veteran, almost asking me to lift my shirt so that they could behold the scars and shrapnel wounds. Maybe it’s just me reading too much into it but still I tried my best to explain to people that I witnessed 99% of the revolution watching Al Jazeera in my living room and that I am no suave latin lover meets Che Guevara meets Elton John.

When I feel like people fail to see me as a person and that I am being repackaged into a stereotype, I comfort myself by thinking that this stuff happens all the time to so many people (a friend of mine complains about the frequent emasculation of the Asian male – and do not get me started on the not so positive stereotypes some of my Russian girlfriends complain about).  In fact, I think this poem by Palestinian-American artist Suheir Hammad sums up what usually goes through my mind in such circumstances:

Exclusive to Economic Revolution: Berlusconi-Qaddafi love correspondence

Milan, 15 March 2011

Dear Muammar,

I hope you can forgive me for what I said in public about you the other day. I was upset with this underage hooker that is after my money and I was not thinking things through.

I understand you do not want to talk to me now, but I hope we can be still together. I will never forget the night when you taught me how to bunga bunga in your bedouin tent. I hope we can go back to that, one day.

I understand you are going through a lot these days, but please don’t take your anger out on my rich Italian friends. I have always looked up to you, your extravagant taste, your disrespect for humanity, and the passion with which you humiliate your own people every day. I hope I can be like you one day. You are not only a mentor and a soul-mate, you are the man who keeps me warm during the long, cold Italian winter nights.

It is ok if you want to break up with me. You can keep all the gifts I gave you, yes even the 5 billion euros.

Your devoted friend, always,

Silvio.

It doesn’t seem like Muammar has taken it well. He has sent this video as a reply.

PS: This post is meant to be a satirical expose of the hypocrisy of western politicians vis-a-vis Qaddafi. My respect goes to all the brave Libyan citizens who are fighting a ruthless dictator. You are not forgotten.

Last night I was at a house party in Cairo. I believe the way house parties have changed after the revolution deserves a fully fledged ethnographic study. Suffice to say that the usual trite ice-breakers now feature a new acquaintance’s in-depth analysis of the scenarios for the military rule and/or the possible implication of this and that on the future of Egypt. Well, maybe it’s better than the usual ‘ohwhatdoyoudohere, howlonghaveyoubeenherefor, wheredoyoulive and sodoyouspeakarabic conversation combo.

Anyways, I am digressing. Since everyone is onto this revolution bandwagon I thought, what about me??! For sure I must have some half-arsed ideas I can share with the rest of humanity on this.

So here’s the thought process. I have no idea what is going to happen to the constitution, the military rule or the incumbent minister of water and irrigation. What I am really curious about is whether this revolution will eventually end up into decent-paying jobs, not having to struggle with double-digit inflation, not having to pay for private care because public hospitals are in shambles and why not, having the luxury of attending a protest where protesters are not out-numbered by police and/or harassed by misogynist fuckers.

A lot could be said about the dismal performance of the Egyptian economy. Let’s start with income inequality. According to the CIA factbook Egypt page, the poorest 10 % of Egyptian families hold 4% of the total income of the country, versus the top 10% who holds 28%. Of course there are worse cases.  In the US, the 10% of poorest families hold 2% of the total income, while the highest 10% hold 30%. What is interesting is to look at trends in the past 30 years. Data from the World Bank shows that in the past 30 years, despite economic progress on paper, the situation has not changed. If anything, the situation has marginally in terms of the wealthier becoming slightly more wealthy.

Read the rest of this entry »