Country on
the Brink
A Search
for the Source of Italy's Malaise
The sun in
the south, the mountains in the north and stunningly beautiful cities in
between: Life in Italy, one might think, is just short of paradise. But
residents of the country are deeply unhappy. Why?
By Walter
Mayr
18.02.2020,
11:53 Uhr
Is it
really possible that the residents of a country envied worldwide for its
"italianità," for its vigor, elegance and culture, are actually, deep
inside, unhappy? Almost every second Italian makes precisely that claim, the
highest such value in Europe. Between the Brenner Pass in the far north and the
island of Lampedusa in the south, a share of the populace more than twice the
EU average feels lonesome and neglected. Two-thirds are afraid of losing their
job. Life expectancy keeps rising in the country, but the birth rate continues
to break records as it plummets.
Nowhere,
not even in Britain, is EU membership as unpopular as it is in Italy. The
number of young academics bolting the country has doubled within just a single
decade, and among those people who remain, a form of
"dissatisfaction" is on the rise, one that "goes beyond mere
anger," the pollsters at Censis have found. Foreigners and minorities are
increasingly seen as scapegoats, according to the institute.
But why?
Six years and three failed governments after my arrival in Italy as a foreign
correspondent, I set off on a trip looking for answers.
A good
place to start the search for the source of the malaise is where unemployment
is among the highest in Italy and where the country lags furthest behind its
potential: in Sicily. The island is home to Michelangelo Balistreri, a
one-of-a-kind bundle of energy. In addition to running a sardine factory, he
writes poems in the local dialect, is a singer and also finds time for
anti-mafia activism.
During a
tour of his factory and of the attached museum, he explains why his island
continues to stagnate, despite it being one of the country's most attractive
and fertile regions. Silence leads to paralysis, Balistreri says, and fear
bears no fruit.
He himself
has made a small fortune with canned fish, and has made headlines with his
fight against organized crime. When he was presented with a demand for 100,000
euros in protection money - from a former bodyguard of the murdered anti-mafia
judge Giovanni Falcone – Balisteri refused. Not only that, he reported his
would-be extortionist to the authorities, who hauled him into court. It was a
dangerous move, but the decision, Balisteri says, was liberating. "If you
pay protection money, you become a mafioso yourself."
Bagheria,
located in the "triangle of death" in western Sicily, is considered a
Cosa Nostra stronghold, particularly since the 1980s, when the crime syndicate
used an abandoned nail factory to torture and murder its opponents, before
dissolving their bodies in acid.
The days
are over in which the main question in viewers' minds ahead of the evening news
was: "I wonder who they killed today." Less blood is now being
spilled. But the mafia's claim to power is just as strong as it has ever been.
The mayor of Bagheria enjoys the backing of the former president of Sicily, a
man who spent five years behind bars for supporting the mafia.
Michelangelo
Balisteri in his sardine factory: "If you pay protection money, you become
a mafioso yourself."
Michelangelo
Balisteri in his sardine factory: "If you pay protection money, you become
a mafioso yourself." Maria Feck / DER SPIEGEL
Located on
the coast east of Palermo, Bagheria was founded as a wealthy suburb, full of
villas, a past that is still apparent from the manors of former nobility from
the 17th and 18th centuries. Today, with an unemployment rate of 38 percent, it
is the poorhouse of Italy.
Bagheria is
a prime example for why the highly indebted country of Italy, which boasts the
third highest economic output in the eurozone, seems stuck in place and why so
many people in the country view the future with a significant degree of
trepidation. The city of Bagheria, after all, essentially has all it needs for
success, including a magical coastline and restaurants that serve up tuna
tartare, oysters and sea urchins.
Nevertheless,
the place wears the "maglia nera," the black jersey, awarded for last
place in the national employment statistics. And part of the reason for that
ignominy is the fact that the mafia continues to maintain a chokehold on the
people of Bagheria.
The beaches
between Bagheria and the outlying district where Balisteri's sardine factory is
located are mostly filthy. And the region's stagnancy seems to be part of the
plan: When the Oscar winner Giuseppe Tornatore, a native of Bagheria, wanted to
make a film in Sicily, everyone was pleased. But there was just one minor
request: the technicians and extras were to come from the Cosa Nostra.
Tornatore opted to film in Morocco instead.
Factory-owner
Balistreri continues to be under police protection, but he seems to not have a
care in the world. "You can also defeat the mafia by singing," he
says, grabbing his guitar and launching into one of his favorite songs. It is a
song about Colapesce, a fisherman's son who, in the Strait of Messina,
prevented a column from collapsing which, according to legend, holds up the
entire island.
The
metaphor remains applicable today, says Balistreri: Colapesce, he says, stands
for those who risk their lives to battle the mafia and seek to protect Sicily
from collapse. "In the sea, sharks feast on sardines – unless they swim
close together with the others." Sicilians, he says, should follow the
sardines' example and stick closer together in the fight against the clans.
With 46
percent of Italians claiming to be unhappy despite having greater private
wealth, a longer life expectancy and better weather than people in most other
European countries, it is tempting to believe that the grumbling is the product
of a fear of losing something. Because no matter what they do, whether its
eating deep-fried rice balls in Palermo, presenting the latest in beach fashion
at the "prova costume" in Ostia or showing up in evening wear for the
season premiere at the Scala in Milan, only very few Italians seem particularly
grouchy in their daily lives.
But their
deep disgust with everything having to do with the state, widely seen as
voraciously greedy and uncaring, has grown since the onset of the 2011 economic
crisis. Migration across the Mediterranean as well as the European Commission's
alleged paternalism have reinforced a comprehensive feeling of an external
threat. The average Italian, Sicilian Andrea Camilleri has written, isn't
particularly concerned with the outside world. "It is enough for him to
know the location of his home, his church, his pub and his city hall. His curiosity
does not extend beyond that."
The
widespread lack of interest in the country's real problems plays right into the
hands of the populists. Italy's lethargic productivity, the corruption and the
unwillingness of the ruling class to step aside in a timely manner to make way
for the younger generation? Neither the right-wing Lega under Matteo Salvini
nor the Five Star Movement spends much time on such issues. Together, the two
parties won an absolute majority in the last election with a message that can
be reduced to the following: The poor Italians are doing worse and worse
through no fault of their own. Such propaganda provides fertile soil for
resentment.
According
to official EU statistics, Rome is less livable than either Bucharest or Sofia
if you ask the city's own residents. The Facebook page belonging to the group
"romafaschifo" – Rome sucks – is full of posts about the aesthetic
downfall of this "savaged" city, as the journalist Corrado Augias
would have it.
Christian
Raimo, 44, refers to himself as a "ragazzo delle borgate," a guy from
the suburbs. A radical leftist who grew up on Gramsci, Freud and Marx, he
currently earns his money as a writer, as a translator and as a teacher at
Dante Alighieri High School. "My salary there is 1,430 euros per month,
less than my mother's pension," Raimo says. "On top of that comes the
recent addition of 700 euros for my job as cultural councilor on the city
council," he says.
And indeed,
the dreamer, utopist and pamphleteer ("Roma – città di merda," or
"Rome: City of Shit") decided in June 2018 to get involved in
politics. He is now in charge of culture in the Roma III district in the city's
northeast. He doesn't spend much time at his desk in city hall, though,
preferring instead to be out and about – in places where it's painful to go,
places that Social Democrats have long since ceased visiting.
"All
leftist achievements from 1970s Italy, both social and cultural, have been
gambled away. Where are all the unforgettable exhibitions and concerts?"
Raimo asks, before answering the question himself: "They don't exist
anymore." Rome, he says, has become a "city of ultimate consumption,
while the political class lies "in ruins." It is something that, as a
Roman, he is unwilling to accept.
As a
result, in moments when he isn't traveling throughout the country giving
speeches on the dangers of "eternal fascism" and "barroom
windbags," as he refers to Salvini, Raimo is doing what he can to strengthen
grassroots resistance to such dangers by arranging for regular infusions of
culture. "Grande come una città" – Great Like a City – is the name of
his event series, and it's not just the variety that is great, which includes
readings, concerts and films, but also the size of the audiences the events
attract. Raimo says his goal is "open-air education." Given what he
calls the "mass-infantilism" that has infected Italy, given that
reading for pleasure has become a rarity in the country of Dante, there are, he
insists, only two possible standpoints: "Io me ne frego" – I don't
care – or "Mi impiccio" – It's a concern of mine.
Raimo, for
his part, has made his choice.
The rail
journey from Rome to Venice occasionally hits speeds of 300 kilometers per
hour. It is a ride in a high-tech train that cuts directly through a landscape
of astonishing beauty, past cities such as Florence, Bologna and Padua.
Evidence of hundreds of years of culture fly past the window.
Italy's
north-south orientation stretching across more than 10 degrees of latitude led
former cabinet member Ugo La Malfa to say that on a map, his country looks like
a person who is standing with her feet in Africa but is grabbing onto the Alps
with her hands, almost as if she is trying to pull herself into the center of
Europe.
Arrigo
Cipriani at Harry's Bar in Venice: "This is a city facing cardiac arrest,
petrified, with no identity."
Arrigo
Cipriani at Harry's Bar in Venice: "This is a city facing cardiac arrest,
petrified, with no identity." MAURITIUS IMAGES
The rifts
cutting through the country are rooted in history. "It's as if Italy is
made up of two countries that in 150 years haven't been able to achieve an
acceptable level of mutual rapprochement," writes the weekly newspaper
Panorama. Gross domestic product in the north is almost double what it is in
the south and the unemployment rate is two-thirds lower.
Having
arrived at the Santa Lucia train station in Venice, passengers flood into the
narrow streets and onto the passenger boats. Starting in July, visitors will be
forced to pay an entry fee into the city of between 3 and 10 euros per day. But
for Manfredo Dina, his colleagues and patients, nothing will change.
Dina is a
psychiatrist, and those traveling to Venice for psychiatric treatment will not
be required to pay the entrance fee. It is one of the 27 exceptions to the new
rule that is designed to slow the deluge of visitors to the city. In truth,
though, it will probably just increase the city's revenues.
"Venetians
are Levantines at heart, businesspeople," says Dina. "That means that
nobody here wants to slow tourism. Our mayor is the perfect embodiment of that
mentality." The city's top civil servant is a chiseled character with the
charm of a bulldozer. He made his fortune with a temp-work agency. When asked
what the entry fee is supposed to accomplish, he speaks in vague yet
grandiloquent terms of his vision of "transforming Venice within three
years into a salon for the world."
For now,
though, the city's reality is a far cry from that airy future, with up to 30
million tourists overrunning Venice each year. The mayor himself sees very
little of it: He lives in Mogliano Veneto on the mainland. And he's not the
only one: Just 53,000 people now live in the historic city center. As recently
as 2013, that number was 10 percent higher. In the 16th century, three times as
many people lived in the center.
Life in the
heart of Venice is expensive, with tourists driving up the prices, while the
city itself is being abandoned. Cruise ships continue to pour day-trippers into
the narrow streets, with the vast, floating hotels still allowed to cross the
San Marco Basin. The fact that such things haven't been banned is
"emblematic for our country's inability to make decisions," says
Paolo Costa. But who, if not he – the former head of the Port Authority, former
Venetian mayor and former member of cabinet with excellent connections in Rome
– could have brought about such a change?
There are
many native Venetians, dignitaries like Costa, who bear a share of the guilt
for the downfall of what was once Europe's grandest city. Who didn't read about
the four young Japanese travelers who, in late 2017, were charged 1,143 euros
for lunch in the Osteria Da Luca, a world-famous incident that the daily paper
Corriere della Sera even called "a metaphor for conditions in Italy"?
Few people
know, however, that the restaurant is operated by an Egyptian man who leases it
from a Chinese man. He, in turn, pays a five-digit sum every month to the real
owner. Or, rather, paid: Professor Franco Rendich, a renowned expert in
Sanskrit, died in late August at the age of 88. He was praised for "his
love of Venice" and buried in the city.
Osteria Da
Luca is still in operation, as is the pub, Harry's Bar, where Rendich enjoyed
the pleasures of retirement. On a recent morning, an elderly Venetian gentleman
was there as well: Arrigo Cipriani, born in 1932 and one of the city's most
famous restaurateurs. Over the years, Harry's Bar has played host to a number
of luminaries, including Ernest Hemingway, Arturo Toscanini, Charlie Chaplin
and Peggy Guggenheim.
Cipriani
welcomes his guests in a double-breasted suit and surrounded by tuxedo-clad
waiters, exuding a surprising amount of energy for someone who has already
decided what is going to be on his gravestone. He would like it to read
"sto da dio," which means "I'm feeling divine" or "I'm
with the Lord," depending on your reading.
When asked
what is wrong with Italy and what will become of Venice, Capriani says:
"We used to be a city of 150,000 residents – no, citizens – but today it's
just a third of that. This is a city facing cardiac arrest, petrified, with no
identity." Maybe it would do the Venetians some good to "start over
again at zero."
It is a
scathing diagnosis, arrived at in one of the most beautiful cities in the world
by one of its greatest sons. But who, if not the city fathers and other
dignitaries, are to blame for the Venetian decline? Who, if not they, are to
blame for the impression that here, too, among the facades of sublime beauty,
the citizens are bemoaning their fates with such fervor? Is it possible that
even here in Harry's Bar they are sometimes choosing the easy way out? Is it
possible that there is some truth to customer complaints on the internet that
they were served pre-mixed Bellinis in dowdy glasses for the price of 22 euros
a pop?
Perish the
thought! The whiners are likely Freemasons, Capriani says. "Harry's Bar is
the best restaurant in Italy," he hisses. Plus, who says that the majority
is always right? "Just because there were 40 million fascists in
Germany," Cipriani says in parting, "doesn't mean that fascism is the
right thing, does it?"
About 1,500
kilometers north of the poorhouse of Bagheria is St. Leonhard in Passeier. The
village is located in the autonomous region of South Tyrol, a region home to
the kind of political continuity that is completely foreign to the rest of
Italy. Since the end of World War II, the region's governor has come from the
South Tyrol People's Party. Without exception. And since 1960, there have been
only three occupants of the region's highest office.
Currently,
the lawyer Arno Kompatscher holds the reins, the 48-year-old son of a village
blacksmith from Völs am Schlern. In his office in Bozen, Kompatscher is clearly
proud of the fact that South Tyrol leads Italy in almost every statistical
category, even birthrate. "It's obviously a function of optimism,"
says Kompatscher, himself the father to seven children.
Essentially,
South Tyrol enjoys full employment. "The core of our success story is
self-administration. We get 90 percent of our taxes back from Rome or don't
even send them to Rome," he says. Kompatscher also believes some
regionally specific character traits play a role: "Sicily, for example, is
self-administered as well, but doesn't benefit much from the status."
The
governor says: "It's not that we South Tiroleans are better people than
the Sicilians, it's because we have a different approach to the res publica, to
the public good. "Here, people have 90 percent faith in the province and
only 10 percent in Rome."
In other
words: Working with and for the people is a recipe for success. That is particularly
true for Sankt Leonhard. The community of 3,500 people has an unemployment rate
of just 1.9 percent, the lowest in the entire country. It is an island of
prosperity beneath steep mountains slopes that can only be used for grazing
starting in May, once the last of the snow melts.
What,
though, can the rest of Italy – what can Sicily, Venice and Rome – learn from
this miniature paradise? Perhaps the careful allotment of resources and respect
for the inheritance of those who came before.
The most
recent report from the researchers at Censis, which was released just before
Christmas, noted that Italy was in danger of degenerating into a "fearful,
mistrust-ridden society." Almost half of all respondents now support
"a strong man in power" who no longer must submit to elections or
parliamentary approval.
It is an
alarming find. In parting, though, this correspondent nevertheless has hope
that the Italians will stay true to their legendary talent for mastering crises
with grandezza. The Italians have a wonderful saying for painful moments:
"Ballando non duole il piede." Your feet don't hurt when
you're dancing."
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