Even the Italian Communists Are Racists!

8/14/2019 Even the Italian Communists Are Racists!

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The Spectre ofHate, Racism and

XenophobiaIs Poisoning the

ItalianCommunistParty

hen I came home from Vietnam inAugust, 1968, I knew then andthere something terribly wrong had

taken hold of the United States of Americathat which I would never have dreamt aboutbefore especially during my four yearsstudying philosophy and artillery, safe andchaste, in Towers of Ivory ten hours by trainor car from New York City, at the foothills ofthe Allegheny Mountains. For the time ofmy brainwashing, no one hinted to me that Iwould have found, in Vietnam, half thetroops drunk, drugged and intolerant. That Iwould have found my worst enemy wearingthe same uniform I did. That I would have

found myself being harassed by an infantrycaptain from Louisiana because I read theThe New York Times subscription (ALL THENEWS THATS FIT TO PRINT, ONLY!) mysister had sent to me to the battlefield nearCambodia for my twenty-third birthday.After a week in Vietnam I had understoodwhy there existed a Hippie Movement.There had to have been one!

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It took a long time before I could verbalizemy Vietnam experiences. Not because Iwas in shock. Or suffering from somenewly-discoveredsyndrome. No! I just could not run intoin

the State of Floridaenough people who

wanted to be honest about Vietnam withme. Worst of all were the Vietnam veteransthemselves. Most of them had cocoonedtheir psyches either in hate and revenge orthe heaviness of silence. I had to happenupon a place to put my thoughts in order. Aplace far away from the United States ofAmerica.

It was not Karl Marx so much as it was mydesire to determine whether or not the badguys were really anymore worse than us,the good guys, that had goaded me on tobecome eventually a Marxist-Leninistcommiserator. A mitigated Marxist to beprecise! Because so many insipid incidentshad befallen me during my two years ofactive duty in the United States Army, I

came to the conclusion that dust had beenthrown in my eyes during my youth and myuniversity residence. I was looking forsomething, someone to trust in. I had losthope in almost everything. I felt I had to

begin all over again. Even the RomanCatholic institute of higher learning I hadattended had itself been subsidized by theUnited States government to allow it totrain some of us (Reserve Officers TrainingCorps) to be converted into artillery officersredlegs. The Friary that housed theFranciscan monks had been called TheHilton, and whisky and wine bottles filled tothe brim the dumpsters outside thegovernment-supported playpen forchubby, brown-clad priests (10% pedophilic;100% draft-dodging) who frolicked in theirecclesiastical tax heaven thanks to amilitary force bound, in a short time, tocarpet-bomb to death millions of innocent

Asiatic people. I realized then that in theUnited States, overflowing with the military-industrial complex, I would never feel free tosay what I wanted to express aboutVietnam.

But there was that still more important,crucial factor. Jean-Paul Sartre, my spiritualfather, and Bertrand Russell, myintellectual father, had been sopassionately, so outspokenly repulsed bythe Vietnam conflict, I could not myself thinkto wane away the seriousness of the matter.Their presence on a world tribunal,chronicling the atrocities committed byUnited States military personnel and theirallies in Vietnam, stunned me. I feltdepressedto say the least. The

philosophers made me not forget eventhough millions in the United Statescontinue to try to do so still today while I amwriting this essay.

For a long time, I did not seek to protest;rather, I had hoped the people of the UnitedStates would come to their senses and quitmesmerizing the Vietnam tragedy intooblivion. That was wishful thinking on mypart which distanced me farther from theplace of my birth. I was downrightfrustrated with Northamericans in-vainattempts to make out of Vietnam somethingthat it was not: a lost butjust cause.

y first flirt (1981) with the hammerand sickle bloomed in Caracas,

Venezuela. One day, I showed up atthe Soviet embassy brandishing a bouquetof red roses, toting my manuscript, TheHippie Lieutenant, and dressed in the Hart,Schafter & Marx suit I had worn at theM


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Ministerio de Informacion y Turismo where Ihad shuffled around cranky, haughty womenjournalists from Time and The WashingtonPost, ladies who had accompanied Mrs.Carter on her whirlwind Southamerican tour,and in which I had re-written the draftedspeeches of then-President Carlos AndrsPrez. At the front door of the embassy, Isucked in a deep breath, hoped CentralStupidity Agency surveillance cameras were

focused on me, gave the United StatesDepartment of State The Finger, about-faced, then rang the bell. I had thesensation that I was making history. And Iwas. Myhistory! For the first time in my lifeI was not making history for someone else!It was beautiful. (To do is to be: Sartre; Tobe is to do: Camus; Do bedo be do: Sinatra.)Soviet embassy personnel were both verycordial and very curious. I was told I couldnot see the ambassador. Alexander Borisov,a journalist, came to welcome me and speakto me. We spoke in both English andSpanish. He, too, was very kind andfriendly. (Later, I met Alexanders wife,Natalia, and their daughter, Iliana.) I toldAlexander that I wanted to publish my

manuscript in the Soviet Union. He said hewould like to read it. I gave him the copy.In return, he gave me many books in Englishthat included works by Marx, Lenin, andother communist literary and politicalnotables. I read them all enthusiastically insix weeks time.

After months of meetings and Soviet culturalevents and gifts of reading materials, I wasasked to write some articles about Vietnamfor Venezuelas communist newspaper. Isaid I would prefer that any of my articles bepublished in Pravda! An interview with thevice-director of the Union of Soviet SocialistRepublics biggest publishing organization,who had stopped to visit with me on his wayback to Moscow after a Southamerican tour,

failed to yield results. I was invited to tourthe U.S.S.R. as a guest. I was told, bytelephone, that The Hippie Lieutenantmightoffend Ronald Reagan who was fresh inoffice at the White House. (I have neverbelieved that my book could have offendedRonald Reagan; but, I would have given myright arm for it to have done so!)

From that time on, I went it alone withoutembassy pals, signed up for a Russiancourse at the Centro de Amigos de laCultura y Ciencias de la U.R.S.S., and wishedthe Cyrillic alphabet would not drive melooney. Every Saturday, on my way upAvenida Los Mangos to the Centro, I took inthe aromas of the splendid plants, flowersand trees doting the elegant La Florida

residential zone where I lived in a rentedroom; sipped on my caf con leche; and,reflected on my state of being: no country,no money, no ideology. It was one of thehappiest times of my life. Truly HenryMillerish.

At the Centro I pawed a bitI thinkat whatit means to be a communist, and I mustadmit that in this fraternity of all races, allages, I enjoyed one of the most beautiful ofcomings-together I have ever known.Everyone was very friendly. The peoplewere distinctly open; they were notchauvinistic. They were internationalists.Worldly-orientated. They mused in terms ofa propinquity, and everyone had a right tobe part of that group. All beings on Earth

were accepted for whom they werenot towhat they belonged. This sat well with me.(Much more catholic than the RomanCatholic Church.) I just knew I waswelcomed in the company of my comrades,

and I have never again embraced such ahuman tie in harmony with itself and others.For a few months, I rode high in thebeautiful balloon of the Union of SovietSocialist Republics, way up there in the air,chasing my dream across the sky, where theworlds a nicer place to be. I could fly! Icould fly!! I could fly!!!

here is no politics in Italy. There is

economy. The most revered HolyPicture in Italy is the dollar. St. GeorgeWashington. Italy is turned on by what itcan earn, and it transfigures itselfas Marxarguedthrough technical and economicchanges in methods of production. Alwaysstruggling to be the worlds sixth economicpowerhouse (imagine how poor the rest ofthe world is!), the Boot kicks and stomps toopen capitalisms secret doors, and itinvokes the spent, treadmill-like rhetoric of apoliticized Roman Catholic Church whosemiracles are made to look more ridiculousevery day in light of the awe-inspiringdiscoveries of Science. For every inch theworld progresses to achieve a better placeever more in keeping with the idea of a justand prosperous environment for all, Italy

stiffens up, reacts contrariwise, and digsdeeper and deeper its trenches of rancor,bigotry and chauvinism. It is no wonder,therefore, that Italy is an anomalycapitalistically speakingbecause it is richwhile it lags behind, technologically andeconomically, other industrialized nations.Italy wants to play it safe. Here is a right-wing conservatives paradise. It is in nohurry to change, and confuses the Presentby clinging on to the Past. The economicgametrick if you willin Italy is to investin the Past and present it to a make-believeFuture! This would be a very intelligent wayto survive with European Union monetaryhomogeneousnessbecoming more andmore a ghastly nightmare for Italyif, asItalians believe, there exists no Future!

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hat there are forty to fifty Italianpolitical parties in existence at anygiven time, startles every democrat

but not one Italian. Leaders of these feudal-like entities talk and talk and talk politics,but connive as brokers dividing up theItalian pecuniary piefor themselves andtheir clientele. There has never been aconsensus decided upon by these economicpaladins and their constituencies. Thereason is simple: they are always back-stabbing each other, in their democraticcharades, to get a bigger piece of thatcream-filledfor themItalian political pie.Italian politicians fake that they aredemocratically inclinedthey call forelections so often just to prove it! Italians

are always voting their brains out! But, themethodsthese means to endsare oftenfar from being Jeffersonian. Their idea ofdemocracy is a government in which smallgroups exercise control for corrupt andselfish purposes. (As I write [July, 1997] thissentence, seven hundred doctors, in theMilano area, are under police investigationfor bilking what is assumed to be one billiondollars from government health agencies.The money is said to be in Swiss bankaccounts, naturally.) Italian government is abureaucratic, Kafkaesque malaise thatserves its fat-cat oligarchy and tortures itslegions of democrats. Italy resemblesmore a caudillismo venezuelano than it doesa government in which the supreme poweris vested in the people and exercised by

them. Italy is Caracasing.

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hen I settled (1 May 1983) in Italysmost communist region, Toscana(Tuscany), I was immediatelyW


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impressed with the large number ofrecreational, club-like bars and cafs thatwere canopied with the hammer and sickleof the Partito Comunista Italiano, and I tried,casually, to affiliate myself with some ofthem because they offered me a cheaply-priced cappuccino and a chance to read thepartys newspaper, lUnit, for free. I spokelittle Italian at the beginning, and mostlylooked at newspaper pictures and, most

importantly, the faces of my Italiancomrades who viewed me withindifference or scorn once they pinned downthat I came from the United States ofAmerica. (Tut! Tut!! Tut!!!)

I gradually came to understand, to speak, tocommunicate, to learn. It took years to getwhere I could comprehend well enough anddelve deeper, then deeper, to try to get tothe soul of Europes most prodigiouscommunist groupsave, at that time, theUnion of Soviet Socialist Republics itself.And this is what I learned: At the entranceto each Italian communist circolo there isa sign which declares, in no uncertain terms,that the club is reserved for members only.That is, it is not reserved for members only!

if you want to go into the front room andspend some of that most repugnant ofcapitalistic quiddities: legal tender. If youare a citizen of the United States, Tunisia,Albaniaeven Senegalyou can enter ifyou pay out. If you are a Senegalese whohas slept under a bridge all night in freezingweather, you can come in and buy acappuccino. If you stop buying and want tostay warm in that front room, you will not beasked to leave, you will be asked to buymore! If club members talk to youandthey just might sometimesthey will notask you your name and welcome you; theywill ask you from where you come. Thenthey will refer to you as an americano,marocchino, albanese, or senegalese. Youwill not be invited to join theirclub. If you

want to go to the bathroom, you must askfor the key. If you sit and nurse yourcappuccino, no club member will come toyou, sit next to you, speak to you. You willfeel just as any Afroamerican does in an all-White Mississippian golf club which hasbeen obliged by federal law to accepthis/her membership, his/her presence.

If you have the courage to ask for the key tothe bathroom, or are too embarrassed tourinate in the cold street after you haveimbibed your cappuccino, you can enter theinner sanctum (back room) where thecircolos only dirty bathroom (W. C.) is.And here you will light upon the heart andsoul of Italian communism, the membersof the Rifondazione Comunista partythat

special interest group which remainedfaithful to Marx and Engels and Leninwhen the old Partito Comunista Italianobroke ranks to form a new left. (There hadnever been an old left. Justparole, parole,parole about it.)

The back room is a cloud of cigarette andcigar (toscani, naturally!) smoke, and thestench(windows are sealed shut in winter) isincredible. Mennot one womanarehuddled over tables playing cards, readingthe partys house organ. No one isdiscussing. They are shouting, screaming.They sound frustrated, desperate. Thewaiter brings more red wine. One bellowslouder than the other, and he says he is

being cheated. You cannot see one manunder the age of fifty. In some circoli theremight be upwards of two-hundred menhowling en masse. They want RifondazioneComunista to get a higher pension for

them; they want Rifondazione Comunista tokeep the government from lowering theirpensions. They moo about high inflation.They croak about Italys hopeless healthcare system. They whine about the longlines at city halls. When they lose theirhand, they bang on the tables. Theystridulate for another glass of wine. They goto discharge urine and stand before theurinal in a puddle of yellow gook, dejected

and wrathful.

Two or three times a year, these men soberup enough to rise to the occasion. They goto the kitchen and borrow their wives potsand pans, put on their red shirts, their redand yellow scarves with the hammer andsickle, put a whistle between their teeth,and go into the street to yowl some more formore money. They rarely obtain it.Medicine prices augment. Food pricesmagnify. Fuel prices thicken. Telephone andelectricity bills greaten. More wine. Morenicotine. They salute their comrades fromWorld War II glory days. Oldcommunists limp home to their winebottles. Overhasty and forfeited, theypromise their grandson or granddaughterif

they have onethat they will go to churchto bear witness to his or her First HolyCommunion. Their wivesif they have onecall them imbecilli when they come home.

What would Marx say? A betrayal? Are theycrazy? Was it not Marx and Engels who,horrified by the unrestrained capitalism oftheir time when rampant exploitation andoppression were the kismet of the workingclass, were animated to fight for justice andequality in a pitiless society? What wouldMarx say seeing these broken, pathetic,bigoted Italian communists impoverished,spiritless, and irredeemable? What wouldMarx say of one capitalist gurus (JohnKenneth Galbraith) short, pithy statement:We must comfort the afflicted and afflict

the comfortable.? What would Marx sayabout these absurdities?

Fausto Bertinotti, Rifondazione Comunistasclever and level-headed leader wouldnaturally respond for Marx with absolutelybrilliant rejoinders and counterstatements,and Italian television cameras would be sureto propagandise Faustos charm andpercipience. After all, Italy is a democracyI repeat: d-e-m-o-c-r-a-c-yand is evenever grand enough to accept a minoritypartys frivolities and capricci. Fausto isprudent, explicit. A great spokesperson anda genius at interpretation. A politicalizedprofessor. But, Fausto is not a politician. Heis an Italian politician. He is cautious toprotect his piece of the pie. He does not

seek unanimity. He holds his cards close tohis chest. He is conservative. He is againstprogress. He is not a communist. Jesuitscall him pragmatic and intelligent. Fausto isnot a believer, but he is not an atheist!(Wants his cake and eat it, too!) He wasmarried in a Roman Catholic Church! ReadsSt. Paul. He is just another breakneck pawnin the Italian economic disaster. Asimpatico one, however. Fausto, stop hidingbehind those Karl Marx and Che Guevaratee-shirts! Reflect on this: Italy, accordingto French philosopher Andr Glucksmann, isthe mirror of Europe. He trumpets:Italians, you are the best of buffoons in acontinent without an iota of commonsense!

For it to survive, Italy needs a good dose ofcourage and the will of all its citizens toreflect a good while on their motives andaspirations. When the Italian politicalsystem becomes a serious, responsible


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institution set to serve the interests of itscitizenry and not those of its nowcounterfeit, self-satisfied, heavy-weighted,oligarchic clique, progress may become areality. Fausto Bertinotti is one of the few inItalian politics sufficiently talented andsensitive to spark the debate, with theindividuals he represents, to help upendItaly. That he does not do so is tragic for allof us.

Fausto Bertinotti, do be do be do! Come on.Loosen up. Come to Firenze, and let us visita Rifondazione Comunista circolo together.Leave your bodyguards and armed car inRoma. Forget about those beautiful Romanrestaurants and their fantastic wines. Comehere and eat apannino with one slice ofham on it and drink a glass of cheap winewith me. Let us teach our comrades that allmen are created equal. That they can befriends with an americano or a senegaleseor an albanese or even a marocchino! Thatthey should ask what they can do for theircountry, and not what their country can dofor them. That they can clean the W.C.That all men are endowed with certaininalienable rights, and that among these are

life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.That they do not have to drink rich red wineand play cards to pass their time. And, letsget them to open circoli windows!

Fausto, you must stem the tragedyunfolding within Rifondazione Comunistasranks. Hundreds of thousands of yourmembers are over sixty-five years of age.Forty percent of Italian families have onechild! Rifondazione Comunista risks goingout of business. You must open theRifondazione Comunista doors to all races,to all ages. Your party cannot remain thedomain of red-faced sycophants, bent onhate, racism and xexophobia, if it is toprosper and spread beyond the limits of itsself-imposed pettiness.

Do be do be do!

Written 1 July 1997

And

Revised 18 June 2001

By

Anthony St. John

Documents

Even the Italian Communists Are Racists!