Human costs incalculable outside the official bulletins. But the “pandemists” do not hear reasons: it closes
Kilometers for the soup of the poor, the Tiber reduced to a shanty town, arcades invaded by blankets. These costs are human but there is no humanity for them. Empty to lose, costs not reimbursed, that's how it went, under whose touch … A poorly treated epidemic, politically, socially, and you die every day a little. Conte's trumpeted plans are cooked and eaten shit. Power is like this: he quarries his chestnuts, he leaves the citizens on the fire. And they insist, they close everything, they don't hear reasons, they don't worry about anything. These are the costs that escape, cannot be controlled, cannot be calculated
What are the uncontrollable costs of a pandemic? They are the ones that escape, that nobody takes the trouble to calculate: considered inevitable and left there, at the mercy of fate. These costs are human but there is no humanity for them. Empty to lose, costs not reimbursed, that's how it went, under whose turn it is. Then it happens that a newscast, for once, stops to tell the life of those who, before Covid, for good or bad, kept going and then the last ropes broke and found themselves under the bridges of the Tiber, closed in a tent, to hope for the impossible. Once and only once: you shoot the pathetic service of the one saved by friends, from the collections on Facebook , which has found a future, and it ends there. As if the others were not left at the mercy of nothing. We don't talk about it anymore, the information has done its duty, “let's definitely turn the page”, as the speaker says.
But if you turn the page you will find a similar one, kilometer-long lines for the soup of the poor, along the Tiber reduced to a shanty town, arcades invaded by blankets with human beings inside. That one does not believe it, one thinks: but it is not possible. And he doesn't want to know, because those "bums" are too close, they are one step away from destiny: why did it happen to them and not you? Why didn't they have a family network like yours, capable of making up for the disappearance of the future? But there are constant "costs" that lose their bearings, that have no longer worked, have held out until the expedients are no longer enough. Then, letting yourself die day after day or get it over with in a moment, the usual note of apology for a sin never committed, does not make all this difference.
Many, not all, are in the small business, in catering, in works of labor, or in entertainment: once successful musicians, actors, actors, one, whom we do not want to name out of respect, has just humiliated herself at her age: forty 'years ago she was on everyone's lips, heartbreaking comic actress, now she has flown away from Rome, returned to her mother's house and “I send auditions, they tell me we will let you know, but nobody lets me know. And I don't know what will happen to me ”. “If it is so difficult to die” , Lucio Battisti sang. No, it is not difficult: an unexpected disease is enough, an epidemic poorly treated, politically, socially, and you die a little every day, while remaining alive.
The Lungotevere as a slum? Possible? Yes, possible and very true. Rome as the Paris of Simenon, in whose novels, in which Maigret there never an investigation without the homeless: no detail, no background but living flesh and worn the story, but not the fifth center, skidding existences whose smells, whose rusts tell everything about man's precariousness; to Simenon they serve to illustrate a too ungrateful truth: that one day earlier even those "homeless" had heated houses, jobs, futures on sale, and then they rolled under the bridges of the Seine, in the same way that a murderer is a man " normal "until a moment before: after, it will never be like the others.
Simenon's abysmal sincerity is an almost evangelical teaching: do not despise, do not condemn, because you are too fragile in front of the sea of life, every moment a wave can sweep you away. And now Rome is a Maigret novel. Go along the Lungotevere and you will find this hallucinating weave of rags, of broken curtains, of trinkets of those who have finished their days. And it will lengthen, because we know it, because the truth is that no one really knows what to do – Conte's trumpeted "plans of resistance and resilience" are the quintessence of cooked and eaten shit – and there is no money. It is difficult to touch a homeless man, one always fears that his end is as contagious as and more than Covid ; but it is becoming inevitable. And there are many "tramps", the one who has lost his job, the one who is sitting at the table in the restaurant, the only customer of himself, the one who looks out of the window and sees only ghosts, the one who is waiting for an audition, a shot of phone or just a blow to take it away. Maybe on Christmas day, this Christmas that won't be there, because someone wanted it like that. But loneliness, when one is at the limit, is more lethal than the virus, it is an irresistible siren. Even misfortune is not democratic, it always rages on the weak, those with full destiny that if a crow lands on it, everything crashes.
We are a country of very self-styled liberal statists, we always pretend that it is an institutional power that pulls our chestnuts out of the fire. But power quarries its chestnuts, on the fire it leaves the citizens, perceived as numbers. Rome, Milan, Como, Palermo like Simenon's Paris: but they insist, they close everything, they don't hear reasons, they don't worry about anything. These are the costs that escape, cannot be controlled, cannot be calculated. It is "them", and we are one step away from those tents.
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This is a machine translation from Italian language of a post published on Atlantico Quotidiano at the URL http://www.atlanticoquotidiano.it/quotidiano/costi-umani-incalcolabili-fuori-dai-bollettini-ufficiali-ma-i-pandemisti-non-sentono-ragioni-si-richiude/ on Tue, 15 Dec 2020 04:55:00 +0000.