Elanso

The elections have left a sense of emptiness. Representation emptiness. Participation emptiness. Voting was simply a cross. A ritualized gesture. The parties were one and the other one, the psycho dwarf and Topo Gigio. PDL and PD-without-L. The same logic of power. The same fear of losing power. The same programme. The same candidates, interchangeable, Ichino, Calearo, Carra, Ciarrapico. In the past, the Italians have chosen. For the Republic and for the Monarchy. For the social-communist front or for the Christian Democrats. They decided their future. Italians voted for divorce, for abortion, “no” to nuclear. For the abolition of public financing of the parties. For a new electoral law. In the past, they were voters, general public, campaign groups. Today they are nothing any more. They are aware that they have no reference points. No institution is a voice for the citizens. The fear of change makes everyone a relative, an accomplice, from Morpheus down. The parties are undressing democracy, one leaf at a time, like an artichoke. A feather at a time like a chicken. The citizen feels just a slight pain. Democracy becomes dictatorship, but no one knows. The Constitution is an unbearable weight for the parties. They organise wide-ranging understandings to change it. A mess up blessed by the Head of State. The magistracy is almost impotent. The law on intercepts will give them the final blow. The Police, as admitted by their leader, is living a perpetual amnesty. The delinquents are arrested and a minute later they are out, thanks to the “ad personam” laws of the psycho dwarf. Italy has gone bankrupt to save just one person. It would have been better to give him life-long impunity, a blank cheque, a one-way air ticket for Hammamet. Politics is dead. The citizens have understood, they are mourning inwardly. Emptiness. In response to the word “future” there’s an emptiness of words. Incinerators, nuclear power stations, militarization of the country. The education system is producing the best donkeys in Europe. The political system has liberated those with previous convictions in Parliament. Tiredness. Italy is tired. It has no exit routes. The system is blocked. Bokassa Bassolino and Tar Head are the same thing. They love each other without hiding it any longer. The Spartacus witnesses, the Rubbishtown trial, are killed like cherries. One attracts the other. There are no bodyguards for them. And if they are not there, there’s always a reason. Honest citizens are clandestines. They are the majority, but with hope removed, perplexed, incredulous. Waiting for a signal. Tiny cracks in the walls. This political system will finish, or the country will finish. Italians know this. Perhaps the parties don’t know it yet.