How the fuck this sidewalk crumbles under my feet, I am almost felling on the ground (n’appoco vaco ‘nterra). It is so destroyed that by every step I consume more the pavement than the shoes.

Everything accumulates on what remains of the asphalt, placed there in a past defined only by the misery in which they left these areas. The dust is getting thicker and thicker. The hot wind, if it blows strongly, forms a cloud that scares you just looking at it. Then you stop trying to understand on which side of the sidewalk you will be able to walk as soon as it starts to fade. This is the method, so you do it every time you have to get to the fountain. The line to get water from the public well is getting longer and longer. You cannot imagine the number of armed guards alongside the stream of thirsty desperate people. Everything has a clear order at the well; no one would ever jump the line.

The queue is composed with every kind of people in terms of gender, race, and age. It is such a long ordeal that in the end one should deserve an eternal blessing. We look like beasts of burden waiting to arrive at the trough. You sweat like dogs in this rain of boiling sun and it is impossible even to lean on the scorching metal sheets of the old abandoned cars. I’m hot and tired; the humidity gets into your bones. My body feels heavy as when that epidemic that transformed us all came into our lives. First the cough, then the blood from the mouth. Masks and ambulances in spite of sunglasses and car rides. Someone proposed the mandatory tags around the neck, as if we were soldiers in a war. It was first the curfew that saddened people, then the distrust that ended up destroying human relationships, the very few human relationships that had managed to resist the misery.

It became difficult to make eye contact without being suspicious. Human contact dropped to a level never seen before. We would have paid for a hug or for feeling a head resting on our chest. We stopped looking, talking and listening to each other. Instead of the happy ending story, we showered ourselves with skepticism and hatred. Diversity ceased to be a wealth. The world began to live hidden, in fear. Everyone walked constantly looking over their shoulders without knowing exactly what or who they should expect. We strengthened our limits, trying to overcome our fears. However, we ended up being commanded by fears, managed by those who knew how to maneuver them and us, like puppets. Even after the pandemic, we were still overwhelmed by laws, decrees and controls. Restrictions for everything, military hospitals instead of public ones, dozens of checkpoints to control the city. There it was Naples, but without freedom.

Meanwhile, I smile looking at the plastic container that I carry with me; they made this stuff disappear to make it come back stronger. With slogans like “plastic stays for life”, they have convinced the world that shit is beautiful and we have to eat it. Everyone knew that plastic is the only thing that truly remains forever, especially those who produce it. They knew it was the biggest shit and for years it had really disappeared. Then, in the void of the crises and wars that followed, it came back into vogue again. If I asked you what is the first thing that comes to mind, it would be a plastic object. Now, for instance, I can think of the tank that I hold in my hands, my backpack and my computer. Shit, plastic all three.

The sun is everywhere, the reflections of the glass left in dilapidated buildings blind me as when the Government Building at Vomero [an upper class neighborhood in Naples] caught fire, in the institutional citadel. They say it was a good neighborhood, I wasn’t even born when the fire happened, I think the area stayed the same. If I could touch the horizon line, it would be hot. The heat is bestial; it seems that Naples is on fire. Everything is glowing, except the people. Yet there have been years when the revolt was real; entire areas were set on fire by the subalterns, the poor, the revolting souls. The water crisis even led the populations to attack the springs in the mountains. The army, the death of so many people and the repression stopped everything. Now, however, no, it is no longer the era. It’s only been a few decades but it feels like an era. The water runs faintly as I look at it with froth at my mouth. I imagine myself attached to the fountain for an hour. But not, this is just in my mind, these twenty liters are not even halfway, a tragedy. The queue behind me starts cursing, but I’m not the target, luckily it’s the slowness of the fountain. Come on [Jam] fucking can, I have to go away.

Twenty liters per person per day for each member of the family. Sunday forty, so people are happy. The truth is that there is water, only they sell it in the four / five big cities that are still left. Luxurious megacities that can only be accessed with the special card which proves that you are a permanent resident. What the fuck those rich people know, living in the their vices without virtue. They never had to make more holes in their belts. Never fasted so someone else in their family could eat. With a dignity bought in a supermarket displaying vegetables producing by assembly lines, they don’t know the rest of the world but decide its fate. Between laughter and fake truths, they pat each other on the back and compliment the women they have at their side. Scaly and slimy, they stick together, crave each other and fatten each other. I’d make them starving. It wouldn’t be good or bad, it’d be just right.

It’s really hot, I want to shelter instead of burning in this hell of concrete and debris. I close the door immediately. Better to stay in the shade without air than to feel this dragon wind capable of lighting a cigarette on your skin. And now I would like to light a cigarette [mò ce vulesse], it would not last anything, two deep puffs and over. I’d just throw it against the wall and fuck everything. A thousand ashes would shine for a single moment. I put some music on my pc to divert attention from my addictions. I also open a very old folder. Surely, I have already seen it with the superficiality that characterizes me when under the blunders of substances I do things I don’t remember. So, instead of stuffing my veins under my wrist, this time sober I take a look at what file I have. Photos, people, writings, murals.

Memories, thousands of memories. Glories and mistakes. People, a lot of people [nu cuofono e gente]. There are also photos from my childhood. Secondigliano [an underclass neighborhood in Napels] was quite different at that time. The bar downstairs is no longer there, but there are three clubs for the registration of volunteers: a little more water and some more bread, that’s all they get. I go fast; I want to see this one, not this one. I want to remember this, not this. This is something nice, this is something bad, this is hum…. I also find photos of my grandfather’s grandfather while diving from the Maddalena Cerasuolo bridge and, if you go on in years, there is one of my father diving from the Arenaccia bridge. Some photos show my grandfather still in swaddling clothes on a boat trip off Garibaldi Square. (^[The two bridges and Garibaldi Square are at the present far away from the sea). 

I recognize the area because the father had his father photographed while he stepped on Garibaldi’s head, which at the time was coming out of the water. Now the head can no longer be seen; what remains is only the sea. Years ago it was possible to go to swim in Carlo the Third Square, now it is enough to arrive in Capodichino Square to take jump into the water from the the Leonardo Bianchi building. A mansion from the late 1700s. Four hundred years of history never fixed, so it is now almost destroyed, half collapsed. The airport was removed from here about fifty years ago, after a revolution against climate change. Airports were attacked, vehicles seized and people began to leave Naples and Italy. They called them climate migrants but no one wanted them, wherever they arrived.

Men, women and children, all of them. The same style as always, detention centers, filing, treated as illegal immigrants. Some aircraft were also shot down in flight, I don’t remember exactly where but it happened. Many friends have left and I have lost contact with most of them. Now the airport is towards Avellino, in the mountains, surrounded by barracks so no one attacks it anymore. I look at some images on the web, the ones that explain how the terrestrial globe was before.

Everything has disappeared, all submerged. Downstairs, in the streets of my neighborhood, what is underground is a black market that tries to give you what you can’t find anymore anywhere; today as before the rich still have the resources to get what they. If there is work, it is only for those who want to deal with the sea. The strongest are the forced owners of the kilometers of shore, with adjoining buildings for hotel use. They are the ones who took power by force. Parastatal forces with their own army and their own economic and social organization. With the money they have at their disposal through contracts, properties and voting packages, they establish the balance of power with the state. Today there is no longer a gap between the rich and the poor, there is an abyss. No more middle-class, as they say. Who has money commands and keeps all things. Those who don’t have resources, try to survive day by day, if they can. We thought there was a better world; instead this is what we got [chest e’].

My grandfather, may rest in peace, participated in the Climate War between 2157 and 2167; he said that history is cyclical, it always repeats itself. There are the poor, the rich and those who do not care but are  good at complaining. Yet, if you talk to the older ones, everyone tells you that there was a time when it was clear that it would come to this. All point to 2043. After seven years, all states should have stopped using fossil fuels. Instead, they began extensions and fake laws allowing continuing using fossil fuels. The outbreaks of revolt in the states that were called “weak” increased dramatically so that the allied forces began with wars. They exported “friendly governance” they said, but in the end they occupied the territories by force. We are lucky because, fortunately, there are still pockets of resistance. Luckily, someone still has faith; and not in God.

Dry throat, water is never enough. A sip every time and the glass is half empty without being enough. Then fuck everything, everything down, even if the sun continues to punch me while the heat squeezes my neck until I suffocate. There must be a distillation of something left in some piece of furniture. I look for it desperately without remembering that it is there, in the only furniture left intact. I squint my eyes and burn my throat convincing myself that in the end the alcohol is never lost. Perhaps this is not the case in this case. An ice cube would do well. Beautiful, fresh, like the snowfall of 2206, over ten meters of snow.

People out on the street feeling the shivering of the cold on their skin. All looking for a breath of fresh air. Then it snowed so much that we were locked in the houses. We came out after a month, without even imagining what we would find in front of our eyes. Dozens of roofs and balconies collapsed, buildings crumbling under the weight of all that ice. And then the snow, a mountain of snow. An infinite grayish expanse with blue and purple veins. That time I erased the memory of a white snow forever. But it’s hot at home too. I have to get off, I can’t stay any longer, I have to take a swim. I look for the shadow where possible, I walk towards Calata Capodichino. In front of me a group of kids [na paranzella e guagliuni] and a few more people, all headed towards the sea. And then again sidewalks destroyed, again slalom among the garbage. An old man stumbles and ends up on the ground, sure he is torn apart. He gets up immediately, wipes his knees, brushes the dust off the rest of the rags he’s wearing and keeps walking. Without a grimace of pain, the facial muscles show nothing, no expression crosses his face. We all know that compared to the daily misery that we constantly experience that fall is comparable to nothing. By now we have also learn how to fell down.

Now only the sea can save me, otherwise my thoughts will cause a sunstroke. Five minutes to arrive, take off your shoes and hope the water isn’t hot as usual. After a few dunes of I don’t know what, I can see the water. Some families have brought their children playing on what is a cobblestone bank. The older ones plunge from half destroyed building that were abandoned after several floods. An irreducible old woman still occupies her unsafe apartment to end her life in those four walls that now look more like a dilapidated box. It is clear that the lady wants to see her memories die where she raised them, I understand her.

Today there is also someone who rents umbrellas, gives you an old rim of a few wheels to put the umbrella on, after all, if there is no wind, it stays up. Immediately a dive and I go out trying not to see that patch of mud that was there until a week ago. Dozens of hands of amused young people cling to the old inner tubes offshore. Some kids mimic a chase in an abandoned vehicle that still has a steering wheel that excites the imagination.

The body of water today also manages to reflect people. It seems they are trampling themselves into an abyss which is after all not so distant from this one we all inhabit  What city must be down there, what we left behind, what we lost. What we have left, what we need to take back. Sometimes, when the sky is clear, you can see people on that other hilly area. We see them, them us, in half a kilometer of debris on a steep wall that ends up in the water. I would like to ask them what landscape they see from there, if it is as bad as the one we see from here.

The siren that warns of the imminent arrival of a tidal wave makes people prepare quickly. The screams of the parents bring their children back to shore, someone lends a hand to the elderly. The umbrella rental recharges everything on its vehicle and goes off at full speed. I put my shoes and my shirt back on. The sun still spits fire and the coolness of this sea lasted half an hour. Behind me the waters ripple, the strictly hot wind begins to get stronger. The clouds on the horizon, charged with lightning, look like containers of light ready to explode. It’s all covered already and it’s still fucking hot. Hot air, hot wind, hot tornado. This time where the high water will go, what damage it will bring and which lives it will break. Who knows one day who will owns all this nothing.

The foam grows as the waves begin to rise, you don’t even know what fucking color it has. Even today the sea will throw up on us all the rubbish it is full of, we will throw it back in some deep hole in the hinterland. Ruining the world by poisoning the poor, overcoming the limits of disgust over and over again, has remained the primary instinct of those in charge. Better to stick to your self-preservation instincts. The water on the shore begins to be too cloudy, the air thickens as it fills with dust. The scorching wind starts to blow stronger and is not a good omen. Half a cigarette on the ground invites me to block it with one foot to prevent the wind from carrying it away. It’s so dented it looks like a fuse. Now all you need is a lighter.

^[1] The two bridges and Garibaldi Square are at the present far away from the sea.

Original version in Italian

Come cazzo si sgretola sto marciapiede ogni volta che ci cammino sopra, n’appoco vaco ‘nterra. Si consuma più marciapiede che scarpe tanto che è fraceto.

Tutto si accumula su quello che resta dell’asfalto, messo li in un passato definito solo dalla miseria in cui hanno lasciato queste zone. La polvere è sempre più fitta. Il vento caldo, se soffia forte, forma una nube che solo a guardarla fa paura. Allora ti fermi, aspetti di capire su quale marciapiede potrai passare appena inizia a svanire. Questo è il metodo, così fai ogni volta che devi arrivare alla fontana. La fila per prendere l’acqua al pozzo pubblico è sempre più lunga. Non immaginate guardie armate di fianco al flusso di disperati assetati. Il pozzo si autogestisce, la fila non si salta. Stanno tutti al loro posto ordinati, semplice. C’è tutto, ogni genere, razza e età. E’ un calvario così lungo che alla fine ci vorrebbe na benedizione eterna. Sembriamo bestie da soma in attesa di arrivare all’abbeveratoio. Si suda da cani sotto questa pioggia di sole bollente e risulta impossibile anche poggiarsi sulle cocenti lamiere delle vecchie auto abbandonate. Sto caldo e st’afa ti stancano e l’umidità ti entra nelle ossa, le senti pesanti come quando venne quell’epidemia che ci trasformò tutti. Prima la tosse, poi il sangue dalla bocca. Mascherine e autoambulanze a dispetto di occhiali da sole e giri in macchina. Qualcuno propose le targhette obbligatorie al collo, manco fossimo militari in guerra. Fu prima il coprifuoco a intristire la gente, poi la diffidenza che finì per distruggere i rapporti umani. L’unica cosa che era riuscita a resistere alla miseria. Diventò difficile guardarci negli occhi senza essere sospettosi. Il contatto umano dimunuì ai minimi storici. Per essere stretti in un abbraccio, sentire una testa che si appoggia sul petto avremmo pagato. Smettemmo di guardarci, parlarci e ascoltarci. Al posto della favola a lieto fine ci inondammo di scetticismo e odio. La diversità smise di essere una ricchezza. Il mondo viveva nascosto, andava avanti intimorito. Camminava guardandosi continuamente le spalle senza sapere esattamente cosa o chi avrebbe dovuto aspettarsi. Rafforzammo i nostri limiti per non superare le paure. Finimmo però per farci comandare da quest’ultime, gestite però da chi le paure le sapeva muovere bene, come le marionette. Fummo travolti da leggi, maxidecreti e controlli, immediatamente dopo la fine della pandemia. Restrizioni per tutto, ospedali militari invece che pubblici, decine di check point a controllare la città.                                                                                                                   

Li fu Napoli ma senza libertà. Intanto sorrido guardando il contenitore di plastica che mi porto appresso, sta roba l’hanno fatta scomparire per farla tornare più forte. Con slogan del tipo “la plastica resta per la vita” hanno riconvinto il mondo che la merda è bella e ce la dobbiamo mangiare. Lo sapevano tutti che la plastica è l’unica cosa che resta veramente per sempre, soprattutto chi la produce. Sapevano che era la merda più grande e per anni era davvero scomparsa. Poi, nel nulla delle crisi e delle guerre che si sono succedute, è ritornata di nuovo in auge. Se vi chiedessi qual è  la prima cosa che vi viene in mente, sarebbe un oggetto di plastica. Non voglio farlo ma subito mi salta in mente sta tanica che stringo tra le mani, uno zaino e un computer. Cazzo, plastica tutti e tre.

Il sole è ovunque, i riflessi dei vetri rimasti a palazzi fatiscenti accecano come quando prese fuoco il Palazzo di Stato al Vomero, nella cittadella istituzionale. Dicono che era un quartiere bene, non ero manco nato, penso sia rimasto lo stesso. Se riuscissi a toccare la linea dell’orizzonte sarebbe rovente. Il caldo è bestiale, pare che Napoli vada a fuoco. E’ tutto incandescente, tranne la gente. Eppure anni di zone messe a ferro e fuoco dagli ultimi, dai bisognosi, dagli animi in rivolta ci sono stati. La crisi dell’acqua portò addirittura le popolazioni ad assaltare le sorgenti sulle montagne. Gli eserciti, i morti e gli arrestati fermarono tutto. Ora però no, non è più l’epoca. E’ passato solo qualche decennio ma sembra un’era. L’acqua scorre fioca mentre la guardo con la bava alla bocca. Mi immagino attaccato alla fontana per un’ora. Finito il flash sti venti litri manco stanno alla metà, una tragedia. La fila dietro bestemmia, non sono io l’obiettivo, per fortuna è la lentezza della fontana.  Jamm latta del cazzo, devo andare via. Venti litri a testa al giorno per ogni componente della famiglia. La domenica quaranta, così la gente è pure contenta. Chell l’acqua ce sta, solo che la vendono nelle quattro/cinque, grandi città che sono rimaste. Lussuose megalopoli in cui accedere solo con il tesserino da ricco residente storico. Che ne sanno questi, chiusi nei loro vizi senza virtù. Non hanno mai dovuto fare più buchi alle loro cinte. Mai digiunato perché qualcun’altro della loro famiglia mangiasse. Con una dignità comprata in un megamercato con la frutta uscita da una catena di montaggio, non conoscono il resto del mondo ma ne decidono le sorti. Tra grasse risate e finte verità si scambiano pacche sulle spalle e si complimentano per le donne che hanno al loro fianco. Squamosi e viscidi, restano fra loro, bramano tra loro e ingrassano tra loro. Li farei morire di fame. Non sarei né buono né cattivo, sarei giusto.

Mò fa veramente caldo, voglio ripararmi invece di bruciare in questo inferno di cemento e rottami. La porta la chiudo subito. Meglio stare all’ombra senza aria piuttosto che sentire sulla pelle questo vento di drago capace di accendere una sigaretta. E mò ce vulesse proprio na sigaretta, non durerebbe niente, due boccate profondissime e via, finita. La scaglierei pure contro il muro e vaffanculo. Mille ceneri brillerebbero per un solo istante. Metto un po di musica sul pc per distogliere l’attenzione dalle mie dipendenze. Apro pure una cartella vecchissima. Sicuramente l’avrò già vista con la superficialità che mi contraddistingue quando tra gli svarioni delle sostanze faccio cose di cui non ricordo. Allora, invece di strisciarmi di roba le vene sotto al polso, stavolta da lucido mi guardo che file c’ho. Foto, di persone, di scritte, di murales. Ricordi, migliaia di ricordi. Glorie ed errori. Gente, nu cuofono ‘e gente. Ci sono pure le foto di quando ero piccolo. Secondigliano era un po ‘ diversa da ora. Il bar sotto casa non c’è più, mò ci stanno tre circoli per il tesseramento dei volontari: un pò di acqua e un po ‘di pane in più, that’s all. Vado avanti velocemente, questa la voglio vedere questa no. Questo lo voglio ricordare, questo no. Chist’è nu fatto bello, chist’è brutto, chist’è mmm. Ritrovo anche le foto del nonno di mio nonno mentre faceva i tuffi dal ponte Maddalena Cerasuolo e, se vai avanti negli anni, ce n’è una di mio padre che si tuffa dal ponte dell’Arenaccia. Alcune foto ritraggono mio nonno ancora in fasce in una gita in barca al largo di piazza Garibaldi. Riconosco la zona perché il padre si è fatto fotografare mentre calpesta la testa di Garibaldi che all’epoca usciva dall’acqua. Mò la testa non si vede più che il mare chissà di quanto si alzato ancora. Prima il bagno te lo facevi a Carlo III, ora fermiamo la macchina a piazza Capodichino per fare un tuffo un pò più giù del Leonardo Bianchi. Un palazzone della fine del 1700. Quattrocento anni di storia mai aggiustati, così è finito, mezzo crollato. L’aereoporto da qui l’avranno tolto una cinquantina di anni fa, dopo una rivoluzione contro il cambiamento climatico. Vennero assaltati gli aereoporti, sequestrati i mezzi e la gente iniziò ad andare via da Napoli e dall’Italia. Li chiamavano migranti climatici e negli altri paesi non li volevano. Uomini, donne e bambini, tutti. Lo stesso stile di sempre, centri di permanenza, schedatura, trattati come clandestini. Qualche velivolo fu pure abbattuto in volo, non ricordo precisamente dove ma è successo. Molti amici sono partiti e di pochi ne conosco le sorti. Ora l’aeroporto sta verso Avellino, sulle montagne, circondato da caserme così non l’assalta più nessuno. Guardo qualche immagine sul web, quelle che spiegano com’era prima il globo terrestre. E’ scomparso tutto, tutto sommerso. Giù da me invece di sommerso c’è pure un mercato nero che prova a darti quello che non si riesce a trovare più, tanto mò come allora chi tene ‘e soldi cade sempre in piedi. Il lavoro se c’è è solo per chi vuole occuparsi di mare. I più forti sono i proprietari coatti dei chilometri di riva, con annesse palazzine ad uso hotel. Sono quelli che si sono presi il potere con la forza. Forze parastatali con un loro esercito e una loro organizzazione economica e sociale. Con i soldi che hanno a disposizione tramite appalti, proprietà e pacchetti di voti, stabiliscono il rapporto di forza con lo Stato. Oggi non c’è più un divario tra i ricchi e i poveri, c’è un abisso. Niente più middle-class, come si dice. Chi ha soldi comanda e tene tutte cose. Chi nun tene niente campa alla giornata, se ci riesce. Pensavano ci fosse un mondo migliore, chest’è, niente. Mio nonno buonanima, ha partecipato alla Climate War tra il 2157 e il 2167, diceva che la storia è ciclica, si ripete sempre: ci stanno i poveri, i ricchi e chi se ne fotte ma è bravo a lamentarsi. Eppure, se parli con i più vecchi, tutti ti dicono che c’è stato un momento in cui si è capito che saremmo arrivati a questo. Tutti indicano il 2043. Dopo sette anni avrebbero dovuto, tutti gli stati, smettere di usare combustibili fossili. Invece da li iniziarono proroghe e leggi farlocche per quello e quell’altro stato. I focolai di rivolta negli stati che venivano chiamati “deboli” aumentarono a dismisura tanto che le forze alleate iniziarono con le guerre. Esportavano “governabilità amica” dicevano, invece alla fine occupavano con la forza i territori. Siamo fortunati perché, per fortuna, esistono ancora delle sacche di resistenza. Meno male che qualcuno ha ancora fede e non è in Dio.

Gola secca, l’acqua non basta mai. Un sorso ogni sempre e il bicchiere è mezzo vuoto senza bastare. Allora fanculo, giù tutto, anche se il sole coninua a prendermi a cazzotti mentre l’afa stringe il collo fino a farmi soffocare. Deve essermi rimasto un distillato di qualcosa in qualche mobile. Lo cerco disperatamente senza ricordare che è li, nell’unica mobilia rimasta integra. Strizzo gli occhi e incendio la gola convincendomi che alla fine l’acool non si perde mai. Forse in questo caso non è così. Ci starebbe bene un cubetto di ghiaccio. Bello, fresco, come la nevicata del 2206, oltre dieci metri di neve. La gente fuori, per strada a sentire sulla pelle i brividi del freddo. Tutti alla ricerca di una boccata d’aria fresca. Poi nevicò talmente tanto che restammo chiusi in casa. Ne  uscimmo dopo un mese, senza neanche immaginare cosa avremmo trovato davanti ai nostri occhi. Decine di tetti e balconi crollati, palazzi sgretolati sotto il peso di tutto quel ghiaccio.  E poi la neve, una montagna di neve. Una distesa infinita grigiastra con venature blu e viola. Quella volta cancellai per sempre il ricordo di una neve bianca. Ma però fa caldo pure a casa. Devo scendere, non si può più stare, devo farmi un bagno. Cerco l’ombra dove possibile, mi incammino verso Calata Capodichino. Davanti a me na paranzella ‘e guagliuni e un altro po di gente, tutti diretti verso il mare. E allora ancora marciapiedi distrutti, ancora slalom tra la monnezza. Un signore inciampa e finisce a terra, sicuro s’è struppiato. Si rialza subito, pulisce le ginocchia, si scrolla la polvere dal resto degli stracci che ha addosso e continua a camminare. Senza una smorfia di dolore, i muscoli facciali non mostrano niente, nessuna espressione attraversa il suo volto. Lo sappiamo tutti che rispetto alla miseria quotidiana che viviamo costantemente quella caduta e paragonabile al nulla. Ormai siamo diventati anche bravi a cadere.

Mò ce vò sulo ò mare oì, perché non siano i miei pensieri a provocarmi un’insolazione. Cinque minuti per arrivare, togliere le scarpe e sperare che l’acqua non sia calda come al solito. Dopo qualche duna di non so cosa, riesco a intravedere l’acqua.  Qualche famiglia s’è portata i bambini che giocano su quella che è una riva di sanpietrini. I più grandi si tuffano dai palazzi abbandonati dopo diverse inondazioni. Qualche anziana irriducibile occupa ancora il suo pericolante appartamento per finire la propria vita in quelle quattro mura che ormai somigliano più a una scatola fatiscente. E’ evidente che la signora vuole vedere morire i propri ricordi lì dove li ha cresciuti, la capisco. Oggi ci sta pure uno che affitta gli ombrelloni, ti da un vecchio cerchione di qualche ruota dove infilarci l’ombrellone, tutto sommato se non c’è vento resta in piedi. Subito un tuffo ed esco, tanto non si vede manco più quella chiazza di melma che c’era fino ad una settimana fa. Alle vecchie camere d’aria al largo ci sono aggrappate decine di mani di giovani divertiti. Alcuni ragazzini mimano un inseguimento in un veicolo abbandonato che però ha ancora uno volante che stuzzica l’immaginazione.

Lo specchio d’acqua oggi riesce anche a riflettere le persone. Sembra stiano calpestando se stessi in un abisso non troppo distante da questo. Che città deve esserci la sotto, cosa abbiamo lasciato, cosa abbiamo perso. Cosa ci è rimasto, cosa dobbiamo riprenderci. A volte, quando il cielo è limpido, si riesce a vedere la gente su quell’altra zona collinare. Noi vediamo loro, loro noi, in mezzo chilometri di detriti su una parete scoscesa che finisce in acqua. Vorrei chiedergli che paesaggio si vede da la, se è brutto come quello che vediamo noi da qui.

La sirena che allerta l’arrivo imminente di un’onda anomala fa preparare la gente velocemente. Le urla dei genitori richiamano i figli a riva, qualcuno da una mano ai più anziani. L’affitta ombrelloni ricarica tutto sul suo mezzo e va via a manetta. Rimetto le scarpe e la maglietta, mi asciugherà e si asciugherà. Il sole sputa ancora fuoco e la frescura di sto mare è durata mezz’ora. Alle mie spalle le acque s’increspano, il vento rigorosamente caldo inizia a diventare più forte. Le nuvole all’orizzonte cariche di fulmini, sembrano contenitori di luce pronti ad esplodere. E’ già tutto coperto e fa ancora caldo cazzo. Aria calda, vento caldo, tornado caldo. Stavolta l’acqua alta dove arriverà, quali danni porterà e quali vite spezzerà. Chissà un giorno tutto questo niente di chi sarà. La schiuma cresce man mano sulle onde che iniziano ad alzarsi, non si capisce manco che cazzo di colore abbia. Anche oggi il mare ci vomiterà addosso tutta la monnezza di cui è pieno, noi la rivomiteremo in qualche buco profondo nell’entroterra campano. Rovinare il mondo avvelenando i poveri, superando più e più volte i limiti dello schifo, è rimasto l’istinto primario di chi comanda. Meglio tenersi stretti il proprio istinto di conservazione. L’acqua a riva iniza ad essere troppo torbida, l’aria si infittisce mentre si riempie di polvere. Il vento torrido inizia a soffiare più forte e non è un buon presagio. Mezza sigaretta a terra mi invita a bloccarla con un piede per evitare che il vento la spazzi via. È così ammaccata che sembra una miccia. Ora serve solo un accendino

Marco Armiero

Only twenty years ago no one would have bet on it. It all seemed compromised, lost forever.

We live in a completely fossil fuel dependent society, where governments were at the service of capital. I remember when the national-racist front seemed to take over every country in the world. From Brazil to Italy, a new right was mounting with simple slogans that pitted the poor against the poorest, fomenting fears and prejudices. Yet the exaggerated. They exaggerated when in December 2025 they let 60 people die at sea, refusing to open ports and leaving them at the mercy of one of the increasingly frequent Mediterranean storms. Carlos and Sara were real heroes. They were video reporters with the pirate channel of the resistance and remained to film and broadcast throughout the shipwreck, until they too went off into the waves. The fact that the regime channel broadcast instead the usual Christmas message of the ministers of the national security and Italian prosperity from a well-known tourist location was the straw which broke the camel’s back.

Many parishes were closed after the decision of the revolutionary Pope to leave society to itself by refusing to offer the sacraments to those who did not deserve them. We of the political opposition had been imprisoned at first but then they understood that it was easier to kill us slowly, by isolating us, making impossible to access Internet, firing us, spreading news false about us. Like when they spread the rumor that we had robbed the van with the money for the “Card to buy Italian” destined for the super poor Italians. They said that we had distributed the money to migrants – all false, obviously, but it was easy to convince the majority of people, after all they owned all the media of communication.

But something started to change. For instance, on September 2028 there was the mysterious song. No one knew from where it was coming from, who had written it, but it began to spread. The rebel priests, the comrades whistled it, the migrants in the camps of self-separation (so they had called that sort of concentration camps in which migrants were locked up). The song became a way to recognize other comrades in the crowed. When the coalition for humanity – which finally brought together all those who opposed the government – proclaimed a general strike, the Minister of Security and that of the Love for the nation sent tanks into the streets, but they found no one. Instead, from every balcony, window, house and church the sound of the opposition song was heard. But you know the story. The repression was very severe. But at that point a community was born. We chose the exodus at the beginning. In the abandoned villages of the Apennines, often on church lands, we created the free republics of humanity. The government left us alone, depicting us as the usual group of radical chic (this is how the intellectuals were called at that time). It was tough, but then people started to come and they found that in the free republics people had a better life. The consumer strike that began in March 2030 was the earthquake. The regime could not believe that many refused to buy.

They tried it all: half price for whites, a free product for those who had already owned the same product; special prices were offered to those who were members of the Party of Real Italians. Nothing. The strike held. We learned to live with less while the Robin Hood brigades for social justice stole from the super rich and distributed to everyone.

Climate change was felt strongly in cities. Only the super-rich closed in neighborhoods in the red areas – those where you could not enter without the VIP ID – resisted protected by air conditioners, heating, running water, food genetically modified. But when we stopped working for them, the system collapsed. The repression was very hard. I remember the massacre of February 2037, when the private police of the red area 134 (an urban agglomeration between Milan and Bergamo) began firing on workers who refused to work.

Today it is 10 years since the revolution. We haven’t solved everything. Climate change that centuries of savage capitalism has left us is not easily resolved. But we are on the right track. The redistribution of wealth has abolished waste and poverty.

The new research system, with collectives of researchers and communities (following the example of our beloved Zapatista brothers and sisters who paved the way for us long ago), is allowing to develop new solutions. The model of free republics has allowed to work on autonomy without ever falling into the trap of closure.

For some, even nature had participated in the revolution, as when he had made it rain on the free republics, leaving the red areas dry. For others, god he had made his voice heard, when for example the inhabitants of many red areas they decided to bring food and drink to the caravan of 3000 migrants that was going up there peninsula. For those like me, however, it had happened that in the end many years of political work had borne their fruits.

The truth is that ours is a beautiful revolution because we were all part of it, because after years of divisions and infighting, we had found the reasons for fighting together.

Father Paolo, the Robin Hood brigades, the clandestine network for ecosocialism, the brigades against the patriarchate, the Afro-European liberation army, and maybe even a god and nature.

Perhaps you would like to ask me: how did you do it? How did you get together? How

was the revolution? And what sources of energy is your society based on? And what happened to the others, to the rich? Well, someone just asked me to send you a postcard from the future, not an instruction manual. Of course, if I had told you it was all a wreck, that I am writing to you from a favela without drinking water or electricity, that slavery is reborn and the rich won, you wouldn’t have asked me the same question. Because in that case it would have been

easy to understand how it went. Obviously in that case we would have left that all continued as usual. Well the answer is all here: we have not left that things continued as usual. Revolt, sabotage, resist, help, withdraw and occupy, remain human. A book that the regime banned many years ago said: a revolution will save us. How to do it, no one can explain it to you with a postcard from the future. Why, Because the trick is to take it back, the future.

Best wishes,

Marco, January 1, 2048.