I'll tell you.
Rome, forty years ago. I was sixteen and still going strong. I came from a family history of socialist and communist era of the fathers. And I thought well of being a communist, diablo. I met a guy from my high school, and I knew him well. "We were together," according to the proper expression of the time. But he said the anarchist. Nobody is perfect, I thought. And down to die debate until its last legs, but he did not give up. And I even. So much so that when we had to go to the event on 1 May (Workers and students united in the fight), I proudly ostentai my freedom to go to comunisteggiare on my own, and never with the anarchists. Only I had not the faintest idea of where and who to go with which group slide, how to dress. I opted for a glorious red shirt, then that Garibaldi was always good, and prudently gave me a pair of sneakers. Wisdom of youth. Executive in a stretch of any parade I slipped into the red jersey and flowing, full of enthusiasm (he was the first demonstration that took part: May 1, '69) I was ready to scan the scandibile.
But here the problems begin: I wanted, not one, not even one of the slogans which turned left and right. I tried to follow, here and there ', something unspeakable, but nothing. Spades. They shouted loud "workers' power", and I was uncomfortable. I thought I was bad combo in a group that is not for me. And I kept thinking to charge the police (when I blessed my sensible shoes) and even beyond, that is when I got home. Battered but whole. It is, I said to myself, to go and see the various groups and better understand where I place. And I decided to do it scientifically: I visited them all and then I decided. Meanwhile, waiting for the closure of schools, I tried to find out a little 'over communism from direct sources, namely from books. And there were at home. Attacked as nothing less than the "history of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union." You understand. But I was sixteen and I wanted to do everything myself.
A bit' Lost
Despite my best intentions and my face felt a longtime reader of the third chapter ... capitolai. Okay, that's okay, I'll find something else. But some serious doubts he was making a small hole in the dike. Finishes school. Finally I can go "for locations." And I start (I saw the "signs" going by tram) from the seat of the Union of Italian Communists Marxist-Leninist. Yes
I'll tell you.
It was the seat (which was a large garage under the building) down, and along the side walls, which were obviously higher and higher, were displayed dozens of mega posters: all red, with touches of yellow, all equal, all with Mao Tse Tung. Identical. A lot. Since the end of June and doing very hot, there was not a soul around, and even met no one on the ramp. I finally arrived at the entrance, fully carpeted posters, all red (touch of yellow), all equal, all with Mao. But when I entered the scene seemed too much. He looked like a fairground sideshow. The entire interior was covered with posters, still all red and all the same, but this time also represented a prospect with the five fathers, as well as single fathers separately. Fathers of Marxism-Leninism, of course. And there, in a great perspective flight, a long counter with printed materials (books, brochures, flyers, etc..) That dominated a lot of Chinese red ones. While a bit 'lost trying to ask someone something (there were a couple of guys vaguely assigned to the bench) I noticed that all the attention paid to them was what was happening in the wing next. This was decked out like the rest, but had a kind of large table upholstered in red, behind which sat three judges. Yes, judge, because in the meantime, I understood that there was going on a "proletarian process," and the trial was a boy who was standing in front of judges with contrition and guilty air. I stood, to understand. And I listened until I succeed.
This process was one of the most horrible things that I have ever witness: continued to accuse the judges of guilt unattainable by human reason that this poor man, and this was the worst, he seemed to feel really guilty. And he suffered as Raskolnikov. I resisted as much as I could, but in the end I can not breathe, and as an eschatological journey, I had to go out there and climb up into the open air, with only one thought in my head: I'm going to Bakunin.
I knew where it was. My boyfriend attended the anarchist for some time and invited me to go there for some time. But of course I wanted to go there alone. The "Bakunin" was in via Baccina, historical center of Rome. I was coming from the suburbs and do not happen to me often to go downtown, but I got there. Needless to say we got to the climb, and I knew immediately what was the home because the street I saw a guy sitting on the window on the first floor that did not seem to get some fresh air, but he was listening to something that happened inside. I realized that the seat was a two-storey entrance gate and entered the ground floor. Small room at the bottom of the ladder to go to the first floor, left a bar with "propaganda" material. The walls were whitewashed and I was relieved that there was no display of particular color.
|
Milan, December 12, 1969 - The hall of the Bank of Agriculture,
Piazza Fontana, after the explosion of the bomb. |
The leaflets of “La Fiaccola”
Behind the counter there were a boy and a girl looking "human" (after the previous experience I was expecting all) with whom I exchanged phrases of informal presentation. I threw a blind eye to the publications on display: the reading of Bakunin, Kropotkin reading, reading of Malatesta, minilibretti other editions of La Fiaccola, a newspaper, Umanita' Nova, some leaflets and posters. Apart from the books of "La Fiaccola", the rest of the material was all mimeographed, and the two boys told me that if I wanted I could take the mimeographed material, if anything with a small subscription. I did. When I explained the reasons that brought me there the two boys, who appeared as Raniero and Maida, directed me upstairs, where they had a meeting of students.
I climbed the stairs, narrow and vertical, at the end of them was a twin of the one room downstairs, but completely empty except for a few chairs and some benches along the walls. It was full of kids, all boys. I understood why the guy I had seen from the street was sitting on the window: there was no other place. I went talking animatedly, and practically they realized, or most, of my entry. I stayed close to the scale in feet, quite willing to listen. He spoke (the names I knew them hand to hand) Emilio, and I liked her to go to Tuscany. During his speech I was struck by an expression that seemed to me (but I was already on the verge of falling in love with everything that was there) a thing of extraordinary originality within a large well talk. Along with a speech peppered with various sfondoni (I was not used), he exhibited a "porcoilbuondio" which seemed fine. You have to be Tuscan to grapple with such a thing. But then he spoke the other, almost everyone. One of them seemed strange to the truth as a student: it was much older than us, he spoke in Milan and his name was Peter. Instead the boy on the window, named Roberto, did not speak, as opposed to a man called Mario who talked a lot.
Until one day, my boyfriend ...
It was love at first sight. I do not know why, I do not know how, but I thought I had found something that is already mine, something that belonged to me before, ever. I went home on the train devouring the "reading" of which I had fitted. I read everything, the whole package of materials that I had taken. And every word was a confirmation, an enthusiasm.
I went back the next day, and the other again, and so for weeks. I met other friends, finally "old", Aldo and Anna. And they gave me a guarantee of continuity that refreshed me: we were not making it all of us, fortunately.
So long. Until one day my boyfriend, who attended the Bakunin matter to me and said he was leaving the group, merged with another group that was formed called "March 22", along with other escapees of Bakunin. The implicit invitation was to follow. I became furious. What was this nonsense? What the hell was going to jump to mind? Why? There followed days of furious fighting and eventually we were, as usual, on two different sides. I went back to Bakunin to know, and I was hurt to take note of what was missing. But so much. Fortunately, in the meantime to Bakunin there was another girl, Bianca. And so were three of us. Bianca was sympathetic, and she, a little 'bigger than me, I seemed gagliardissima. Once, coming together from home, followed us and we were joined by a boy, Andrea, who knew little or nothing. It was strange, because he, alone of all, his hair cut short. Joined us, and browsing in our absolute amazement, he asked us to help him earn some money by selling our classmates ... strings of pearls! Complete with box! Do you know how you decorated with the girls in '69? Well, not with pearls. We politely refused and walked away snickering.
I was in a state of great excitement, apart from the irreconcilable conflict with my boyfriend, and I read, I read everything and anarchism can be reached. Meanwhile, miloitant, and gallantly enthusiastically, with the companions of Bakunin. Everything was fine, and it was stated in the sun of every dawn. Everything was fine.
Until the evening of December 12.
anno
41 n. 361
Zelinda Carloni