Any hot-air balloon passing by?

Yeah, it's not a lucky period. You realize this not because things don't work (this can happen for many reasons, the majority of which you are often the only responsible), but because things start colliding with you. Oh, yes, I guess I have still in this case some responsibility, but the environment should be considered at least unfriendly to me, if not hostile, too.
The list is quickly made. In the latest weeks I: heavily crashed with a go-kart (one of my rare hobbies), was bitten by a dog in my calf (first time in my life), spiritedly discussed to blood with one of my dearest person (first time in my life), fell from the scooter and I had to wear the collar to recover my neck (first time in my life), was robbed of my documents (all of them, from passport to the library card, including 100 €, anyway first time in my life), and today seems that the cat I cared for during the entire summer (and that since a few days was back with his owner) has ran away and nobody could find him anymore.
Anything else? Wait, if I think better it's possible I can recall something else.

Syria: everything was written already (and said)

Everything was written already. Sure. And said. Go and watch "Isti'mariyah - windward between Naples and Baghdad", people from Syria already told us in 2005 everything we need to understand about what is going on now. And something we have said already at that time, because that experience provided us the elements to analyze and foresee.
We can start with this extract from the movie: WATCH HERE (Italian subtitles).
The one who is speaking in this footage is Ali Hidar, a member of a semi-clandestine party at that time. As you can see, he is saying 3 main things: 1) he is asking the Syrian Power the chance to run free elections and therefore to take part in them (which is like saying that yes, this is a regime, but we can still dialogue with it) ; 2) according to the perspective of a Bashar Assad political opposer, US are not interested in democracy, on the contrary they are interested in regimes and governments that can pursue the american interests in the region; 3) the colonialist project on the Middle East, begun almost a century ago, is still running and back again became a strategic turning point for the planet ambition of US.

The god of nomads

And so here I am, one year older. Here the eyes rest on the gulf, lazing ships moored off, those that leave and those that never will be back. And a fateful choice to be taken by tomorrow: stay or leave.
In other words, say goodbye to everybody and shelter in Apulia for the summer and wait for things to happen from there, or stay 1 month more in this house and find the way to get the money to repay it back in september.
The crisis is biting my ass, too, that's sure. Too many things didn't work, all kind of peaceful therapies were taken too, don't know what is left to be done. Obstinacy can eventually bring to unexpected achievements, but I also think that after a certain point is healthy to accept failures especially when others are paying for you, are supporting you and there's a moral limit to what is fair to demand. 


Come on, what homecoming we are talking about? That's what "νόστος" (nóstos) means, after all. I better know what "ἄλγος" (álgos) means, this is a much more known experience. The one who invented the term made by the 2 words, a writer, a storyteller, had a clear character in mind, a clear story and a clear place to make the character suffer for. Given the man, the story, I still can't deal with the place of my suffering. Is it possible, Homer, to suffer for different places at the same time? Is it possible to call home different places at one time? So, where should I go to? Which Ithaca should I move my ship towards?
Don't take it seriously, Homer, they are not real questions. The story is compelling when the hero has a direction. That was your duty as a storyteller, to find a direction for Odysseus, the hero. I guess you did not have time to lose for these boring trifles. However, so it is.
My Ithaca is not a place, definitively. At least not just 1 place. It is many places at 1 time. Any portion of this pain dedicated to these different places produces different sides of me. It's like a prism. The light comes through the prism and divides in different colors. The prism is me, the light is my suffering, the colors are the many ways of my suffering.

Sitting on the dock of the whale's mouth

Ah, what a nice May. The breeze is sweet out of the window, the change in the pocket is always less, the swallows fly around the bell towers and seagulls are feeding their nests. Momo is back again. A nice, watchful, unflappable seagull, a kind of seasonal neighbor, she is standing on the tip of the cornice of a tower of the complex of Saint Gregory the Armenian, in Naples. My window is just a few meters below.
The house is full of friends. Dominic is checking his scenario about his latest short-movie, Maike is working hard on her sewing machine to make her latest coin pocket from a music cassette. At the end of the corridor Elena and Max are coming up with their latest mischief for their next show of juggling.
And the whale is cradled by the sweet spring waves in the Gulf of Naples and sometimes she forgets her mouth open while doing a nap on the surface of water. And I can see the world outside, finally. Sure, because all this long period was nothing but a long captivity in the whale's belly. I guess it happens to everybody soon or later along his lifetime. Still I am not outside, yet. My mood is good, but I am still prisoner. I can always choose to stay here some more to enjoy the amazing view of the world seen from the whale's mouth, but since it's a necessity before a choice, therefore I feel prisoner.

Nec spe nec metu

There's a special state of mind when you may start not feeling hope anymore. Which is not like losing hope, don't mistake. I am not saying that you become pessimistic, or you think that all the things you have fought for will never happen. Nobody said this. I am just saying that you learn to go on without thinking of hope. And you find this state of mind, after all, more appropriate to your present life.
After you saw people spending words of unity just to gather other people and graze them where they please always keeping the head of the parade.
After you saw dictators being overthrown with the bullshit of freedom while Europe is facing a dramatic economical crisis and the only important thing in these countries has always been their natural resources, but then above all, you saw people believing these bullshits without wondering, moreover, coating the end of the regimes with the label of revolution, not mentioning about what is what is coming then.
After exactly 3 years have passed since you left all behind to chase something that first disappeared, then left the place for something new, but struggling and pushing all this time was still not enough to come across something that broke once and never found the pieces back.

Genoa 10 years later: a generational judgment - Genova 10 anni dopo: un bilancio generazionale

So, I should tell now what remains in my mind and in my heart of the Genoa G8 experience ten years later. One question above all the still pulsing memories: what was it good for?
After years I found my own answers, but still not all. But one thing is sure: me, like all those who were there, we were experiencing, as Italians, something which marked our generation.
I will share with you a wound I am still carrying of those days.
I was in Genoa since the beginning of the week. I was a beginner video-activist at that time. Therefore I followed all the demonstrations. And I was in the street when Carlo Giuliani was killed. But the bad situation I was involved in was the infamous police raid in the "Diaz" school. I used to upload my videos in the school where the media center was based, that was just in front of the "Diaz" school. There I was when the raid started at midnight of 10 years ago. Actually the school of the media center (called "Pascoli") was almost empty, everybody had left already by taking the special trains to go home.

Italy is the doormat of the empire

I am getting nervous. I am sitting on a nuclear bomb on the day when Italy is voting a referendum against the nuclear energy (and against water privatization and immunity of premier, I mean, not trifles). This is a paradox!! Fine. Let's put besides the coincidence. I am anyway sitting on a nuclear bomb. How should I feel?
Since 2 days ago the USS George H.W. Bush (CVN 77), the biggest nuclear aircraft carrier of the world is anchored in the waters of Naples, a short stop before heading to Libya within the plan of increased military operations. In a while its planes will start bombing on Libya.
I can see the monster from my window. Since 2 days. Do you find it normal? A nuclear accident is totally excluded? How? And what if Vesuvius decides to wake up today? And waking up hits a underground fault and causes a tsunami? Are we ready to say goodbye to the gulf of Naples after thousands of deaths? An italian expert of nuclear wrote in a column today that a nuclear accident is as likely as the possibility that 7 shepherds from Afghanistan hijack a plane into a tower. But with a difference: the permanent damage of the contaminated area.

Tunisia: rebels and stunts

It's time to reorder thoughts after the trip to Tunisia. I will try to assemble travel notes and impressions. I met a lot of people, making almost always the same questions and I received different answers. Strange place Tunisia, at the moment. There's a lot of smoke in the eyes and the changing is slow, so slow. There's a starting gun ready to shoot but it seems the start will not come by now. Much work must be done first, I fear that only once those who are the alleged winners will be sure of the victory, the starting gun will shoot. And at the moment, people are still too much convinced to be those who made the changing possible and this is too dangerous for those instead who planned everything and now must start cashing.
These are some travel notes collected during my underground conversations:
<<The people's demands are legitimate, but this is not a revolution. Blood in Tunisia has always been paid and has never changed anything. I wonder why today there is a change. I fear the answer is in geopolitical plans that do not belong to Tunisia. Colonialism was in need of new foundations>>.
<<Those who drove the fall of Ben Ali are people of the establishment that wikileaks proved to be linked to CIA. And they are still in power. That's why I was surprised when i saw him falling down. I asked myself: were we who made this? We were just the strength they needed to push him down, but this way we put ourselves back in the cage>>.

Out of the spotlight

Instead of sweet drops of champagne on the face I have always preferred to lick bitter tears. When it is time to celebrate, I am already elsewhere. Anytime you celebrate something, you forget dark corners. And I prefer to see reality from dark corners than being under spotlights. Not because I am shy. Normally I am not. But just because I rather prefer to know what it is hidden in dark corners, and there is where I like to be.
Maybe that's why when in Tunis people where celebrating the fall of the regime, I was wandering in the dark alleys of Naples. And today that in Naples (and Milan) people are celebrating the victory of the leftist candidate on a "de facto" regime, I am wandering in the dark alleys of Tunis. Allergy to happiness? Faith in a minor god? Weak thinking?
Not exactly. I think reality is often not what we can see. So that, celebrations are not an accomplishment of reality but rather a kind of collective rave. And if I really need some buzz, I stay far from politics.

What the word "revolution" is made for

Me personally, I am not seeing any revolution. I can't see crowds of people walking around dancing. I can't see women walking around with head held high. I can't see people putting flowers in the guns. I can't see people dressing as they like. I can't see people closing western industries that emit deadly odors. I can't see people imposing people's dignity before interests.
I have never been in Tunisia before, I can not say what was here in the past. But I have been in Algeria, in Syria, in Jordan (and in Serbia during Milošević). Therefore I guess I can have an idea of it. For sure now is a little bit better. A tunisian friend I met in the recent days told me:
<<Before Ben Ali's fall, whenever we went out at night to write on a wall in secret, in the morning we found it cleaned up. By the police? Not at all. By neighbors who feared being blamed by the police. Now people do not bother to clean up the walls. But the police arrests us wall-writers as before>>.
I can add another example: when police stops you and asks why you have a camera in your hands, now you can answer that you are here visiting your brother and chatting with your tunisian friends making videos out of it and it's enough. Before, I guess it was not so.
I am in a little town at the outskirts of the desert in the south of Tunisia and I find a bit of rest to write. Bernardo is working in the local department of the university of Gabes.

The fascism of antifas

Today it's a sad April 25. From my window there's a stunning silence. It should be a day of happiness, of celebration of the anniversary of the liberation of Italy from Nazi-fascism in 1945. It's a day of celebration in Italy officially, people don't go to work and schools are closed. But today is also Easter Monday, so it is holiday anyway. Some fascist group tried to have fun of it: "happy April 25!", they wrote on posters, referring to the catholic feast. So from my window comes only a sad and melancholic neapolitan song today, coming from the lanes below.
I wonder why this silence. It seems like people are stunned. That's why nothing moves. Just that moment before the wolf attacks the lamb. Everything for a second stops, leaves of the wood are immobile, the wind ceases, no sound in the air. And after a while everything is done.
Finding myself in despair, this morning I opened internet and I found some really stupid and discouraging comments by the self-called "antifa"s. This word (initial for "antifascists") appeared for the first time in the 1923 in Germany by the German Communist Party. That's why, because at that time Nazism was yet not on the stage. But I still wonder why today German anarchists have to call it "antifa", since "fascism" is a proper italian word, and "nazism" is much more meaningful, coming from the word "nation", something that refers to everybody's condition. "Antina", was not better? Anyway, this is not the point.

On the body of immigrants

I am back to Naples since a few days. I found a flat and since a few days I have been living there. Finally I have a place on my own. And everything looks fine and the amazing view from the window is making me in a good mood. However I can hardly find the time to make a normal life since we are in studio mixing the music of "KATIRLAR DOGURUNCA".
It's strange to find a place now, after 13 months of wandering hosted by so many people. Now that Italy is crossed by thousands of young migrants looking for a new home. But I am not an alien. My life too is affected by what is going on. For instance from my window I can see the port of Naples, where is based one of the commands of the Nato operation on Libya. 
Not only. Last sunday I went to Manduria, a small village in the countryside, 100 km south from Bari, where they set a refugee camp to put some thousand of Tunisian immigrants come to the Lampedusa island in the last weeks. I went there with my mother to see, to ask, to share, to understand and to bring some cakes and drinks for some of these guys.

'О μύθος δελοι οτι..

What happened yesterday night once I arrived in the port I think it is something worthy to be told. Europe is living in a full-blown paranoia. In these days on the Italian media they use words like "invasion", "assault on trains" (for those who are escaping going to France), "mass escape from the immigration centers", "hordes of immigrants are running around in the country". After the tunisian regime fell, tunisian citizens started shipping to Lampedusa, a small island close to Tunisia but still italian territory. During the past regime, tunisian coasts were patrolled by tunisian coast guard, but now that chaos is ruling in the country, thousands of young people are taking now this opportunity. So a few thousands young Tunisians are now on this small island and the italian government is doing nothing but pushing immigrants and italians on the island to desperation. Food and water started missing and I guess they are just waiting for the tension to be unleashed in order to criminalize immigrants and implement a kind of biblical exodus (call it "deportation") for future memory. Shall we bet?
Anyway, let me go back to Igoumenitsa, yesterday night. I walked alone with my contrabass to the port and all around in the empty dark streets, tens of young africans were roaming around the port, like desperate stray dogs. I said "hello" to somebody, they asked for coins, cigarettes and then I went.

The one who is on travel

Where are you from? Where do you live? These are usually hard questions for me. Once upon a time I decided I would have replied that my place is there where my contrabass is. That's why this time I feel like I am not in Istanbul anymore. I am in a small town on the west greek coast, just in front of Italy, waiting for a ferry to Bari. The contrabass is with me, I am bringing it back. Istanbul-Bari by land is not that terrible, I have to say, after all. One night bus to Tessaloniki and one 4 hours bus to Igoumenitsa and then waiting for a night ferry. Thinking of going back one day soon? Who can say?

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