How important is freedom of speech in Italy? You can still call free in this country? And how many of us would have the courage to say what they think or tell stories of hard truth even at the cost of losing his life?
Perhaps not many ... But Roberto Saviano. This guy's 28 years of great courage and extraordinary strength did this: He told one of the most inconvenient truth, and now Italian has to run with the stock and leave their homeland to live a normal life. The letter
output in the first pages of La Repubblica today, is an example of extraordinary strength and courage, yet another cry of alarm of a tragedy foretold that could be avoided if we each take steps to give this guy every support and help possible.
In a normal country and civilized people who have the courage to fight against injustice must be helped and should not find themselves in a position to leave their country to hope to live.
Saviano words contained in the letter published today by Republic :
"I'll go 'way from Italy, at least for a period and then we'll see ...", says Roberto Saviano. "I think you are entitled to a break. I thought, at this time, that the temptation to retreat was not a great idea good, is not particularly smart. I thought it was very stupid - as well as indecent - to deny oneself, to allow men to bend to anything but contempt for what people think, how to act, for how he lives, for what it is in the most intimate of the fibers, but at this moment, I see no reason to insist on living this way, as a prisoner of myself, my book, my success. 'Fuck success. I want a life, here. I want a house. I want to be in love, have a beer in public, go to the library and choose me a book by reading the back cover. I want to walk, sunbathe, walk in the rain, to meet without fear and without scaring my mother. I want to be around my friends and to laugh and not have to talk to me, always with me as if I was terminally ill and they were struggling with a visit boring yet inevitable. Shit, I'm only twenty-eight years! And I still want to write, write, write because that is my passion and my strength and I, to write, I need to sink your hands into reality, rub it on her, smell and sweat and not live as sterilized a hyperbaric chamber, inside a police station - here today, two hundred kilometers away tomorrow - moved as a package without knowing what has happened or could happen. In a state of perpetual confusion and insecurity that keeps me from thinking, thinking, concentration, whatever the thing to do. Sometimes I find myself thinking these words: I want my life back. I repeat them one by one, silently, to myself. "
The truth, truth that the only obscene in hours like these, it is tragic evidence is that with Roberto Saviano is a lonely man. I do not know whether it is fair to say already man imagining or pretending to trace in his personality, his strength of mind, in its very physicality of the surprising power and ages of his novel, Gomorra. Roberto is still a boy, to see it. It has a small body, eyes always on the move. Can be, at the same time, malicious and insecure, shy and sly. It is still a race to himself and this path has been captured by an extraordinary success, popularity by an unpredictable, murderess and absolute hatred of a mob, the rancor of quietists and fearful, the envy of many . Maybe these are the reasons that explain how to live together today in his face, alternating fraternally, wrinkles and shadows of suspicion of youthful faith of those who know the joy - and pain - it increases the life of a man. "You know, this unconquerable spirit of loneliness that binds me makes me a man worse. No one I think and even to last year I never thought about. In private, I became a better person: suspicious, wary. Yes, suspicious beyond all reason. I happen to think that everyone wants to steal something, however tempted to "use me". And 'as if my humanity had been impoverished, the same immeschinendo. Consistently prevailed as if a dark side of myself. It is especially pleasing to notice I'm not so I do not want to be. Until a year ago I could still close my eyes, pretending not to know. I had the legitimate ambition, I think, to have written something that I seemed to be changing things. That change slowly, which had never been given the attention to the tragedies of that land, that energy social - like an explosion, like an earthquake - has forced the media agenda to deal with the mafia Casalesi, it forced me to have courage, to expose myself, to stand in the front row. It 's my kind of resistance, I thought. Everything went into the background, becoming second-class for me. I met the great men of literature and politics, I said what I had and I could say. I do not ever looked back. I do not notice that every day that I was losing me. Today, if I look back, I see the rubble and once hopelessly lost that I can not grasp but only rebuild if not live, as I do now, as a fugitive on the run. In captivity, guarded by police, locked in a cell should live Sandokan, Francesco Schiavone, the boss of the Casalesi. If it is deserved for the violence, poisons and death with which he washed down the Campania, but what is my crime? Why do I have to live like a recluse, a leper, hidden life, the world, men? What is my disease, my infection? What is my crime? I just wanted to tell a story, the story of my people, my land, the stories of his humiliation. I was pleased to get it done and I thought I deserved the small happiness that gives you the social virtue of being approved by your peers, your own people. I was naive. Not even a house, want to rent in Naples. Just know who will be the new tenant will have their faces insincere smile and a sideways resembling contempt rather than fear: I am very sorry, but can not .... My friends, my true friends, when I finally reviewed after so many leaks and too many absences, I could not explain, I have said enough, now we can not defend yourself and your damn book, we can not be war with the world because of you? Sin, what sin? It 's a sin to have wanted to talk about their lives, my life? ".
just like them, from us, the martyrs. Dead and buried, they can still be periodically endure. You live, you become unpleasant. Very unpleasant. Roberto Saviano is very disliked by many. It may happen to be annoyed by his face around on the front pages. It may happen that not be surprised to think of him as a person not being chased by a real threat of death, a boy fell into a destiny, but as a personality that can handle his image with wisdom and good fortune. It also happens at this time, here and there. E 'short, useless thing, however, whether the threat today against Roberto Saviano is trusted as reliable or more reliable than the second and more? Or ask if you really want it that Joseph Brisson disintegrate before Christmas, with dynamite along the motorway Rome-Naples or if the killers have already been procured, as one of them, the explosives and detonators. Or wonder if the confidence reached the ears of the police must be certain or only probable.
E 'and useless little thing, I say, because if Casalesi it will have the chance, will kill Roberto Saviano. Should be the last blood pouring. Are reduced too far, stressed out, surrounded, harassed, impoverished and must demonstrate the relentlessness of their domain. They must be able to prove the criminal community and, in their territories, the "subjects" that no one can defy with impunity without putting in mind that the challenge will follow the death, as day follows night.
I feel like a bad smell on the hatred that surrounds me. It is not necessary you hear their confessions and interceptions or read on the walls of Casale di Principe: "Saviano is a man of shit". Nobody over there think I have only done my duty, what I thought was my duty. I do not even recognize the honor of weapons that usually have the cops arrest them or condemn them to the court. And that pisses me off. The stigma that I throw it against other factors. Do not say, "Saviano is a ricchione. No, they say, has been enriched. Infamous put us on the mouth of the Italians, in the fire of the government and even the army has put us in front of these cameras for fucking money. She just wants to get rich, which is why he wrote the infamous the book. And this argument brings together the sick and the healthy part of Casale. I also goes against my friends I say, your beautiful life, you made money and instead we get along with five hundred euro a month and then we should defend yourself from those who hate you and wants you dead? And why, diccene the reason? Before I was hurt by this insanity, but no longer. I'm not surprised anymore. I seem to have realized that by downloading on me all the poisons destructive, the whole community can get rid of the disease that afflicts it, continue to think that there is not that bad or is negligible, which after all is bearable in comparison disasters caused by my work. Become the scapegoat of anti-social and impotence Casalesi and many Italians in the South makes me more objective, more lucid for some time. I'm just a writer, I say to myself, and I only used the words. They, of this, they fear of words. Is not that wonderful? The words are enough to disarm, defeat them, see them on their knees. So we welcome the words and many others. Blessed be the market if he asks other words, other stories, other representations of the Casalesi and mafias. Each new book that is published and sold will be a defeat for them. It 's the weight of the words he has put in motion the conscience, public opinion, the information. In the nineties, the slaughter of migrants in Pescopagano - it killed five - ended in a headline to a column in the chronicles of the national newspapers. Today, the massacre of Ghanaians in Castelvolturno has forced the government to a commitment comparable only to the response to the Cosa Nostra after the massacres of Capaci and via D'Amelio. I did not think we could achieve this. I did not think that a book - only one book - this could cause an earthquake. Soon after, however, think that I must comply, as I respect myself, the magic of words. I have to go along with it, grow it, you deserve this force. Why is my life. Because I believe that only by writing, my life is worth living. I've heard for a long time, as a moral obligation to become a symbol, to agree to be beyond the proscenium my desire. I did this and I'm not sorry. I turned down two years ago, and advised me, I go to live in New York. I could write more, as I intend to do. I stayed, but for how long will I carry this cross? Perhaps if I had a family, if I had children - like them my guardian angels, each of them has less than three - I would have a different balance. I have a home to go back, to defend an affection, nostalgia. Not so. I have only words, today, to take care, to care. And I want to do this, I do. How do I - I know - to rebuild my life away from the shadows. Although I have not the courage to say it, the Carabinieri in Naples that protect me like a son, men who for years has been concerned with my safety. I do not have the heart to tell him. You know, none of them has asked to leave after this warning, and this moves me their obstinacy. I have just said, "Robe ', still, that we will not fuck with those guys".
Who owns Roberto's life? Only he who can lose? Saviano's fate - which are now its days, which will choose the place where, "for now", to write to us his words needed - are increasingly a matter of Italian democracy.
unarmed His life - or armed only with words - has fallen into a 'area of \u200b\u200bindistinctness which seems to be no traditional difference between war and peace, if the mafia can declare war on the State and the State for too long or has not been able to cancel the violence on men and things or restore basic rights. Beginning with the most original of democratic rights: the right to speak. If Saviano loses, irretrievably lose all.
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