oriana fallaci: the rage and the pride la rabbia e l ... filefallaci 7/19/08 10:09 pm page 3 of 60...

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of 60http://www.challenging-islam.org/library/fallaci.htm

Oriana Fallaci: The Rage and the PrideLa Rabbia e l'Orgoglio translated into English

The Rage and The Pride (La Rabbia e l'Orgoglio)by Oriana Fallaci

You ask me to speak, this time. You ask me tobreak at least this once the silence I’ve chosen,that I’ve imposed on myself these many years toavoid mingling with chattering insects. And I’mgoing to. Because I’ve heard that in Italy toothere are some who rejoice just as thePalestinians of Gaza did the other night on TV."Victory! Victory!" Men, women, children.Assuming you can call those who do such athing man, woman, child. I’ve heard that someof the insects of means, politicians or so-calledpoliticians, intellectuals or so-calledintellectuals, not to mention others not worthyof the title of citizen, are behaving pretty muchthe same way. They say: "Good. It servesAmerica right." And I am very very, very angry.Angry with an anger that is cold, lucid, rational.An anger that eliminates every detachment,every indulgence. An anger that compels me torespond and demands above all that I spit onthem. I spit on them. Angry as I am, the African-American poet Maya Angelou roared the other

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day: "Be angry. It’s good to be angry, it’shealthy." And I don’t know whether it’s healthyfor me. But I know that it won’t be healthy forthem, I mean those who admire Osama BinLaden, those who express comprehension orsympathy or solidarity for him. Your requesthas triggered a detonator that’s been waiting toolong to explode. You’ll see. You also ask me totell how I experienced this apocalypse. To give,in other words, my testimony. Very well, I’llstart with that.

I was at home, which is in the center ofManhattan. At exactly nine o’clock I had asensation of danger, of a danger that perhapswould not touch me, but that undoubtedlyconcerned me. It’s the sensation you feel in war,or rather in combat, when every pore of yourskin feels the bullet or the rocket as itapproaches, and you perk up your ears and yellat the person next to you: "Down! Get down!" Ipushed it away. It’s not like I was in Vietnam.It’s not like I was in one of the many wars, thosefucking wars that have tortured my life sinceWorld War II. I was in New York for God's sake,on a marvellous September morning in 2001.But the sensation still possessed me,inexplicably. So I did something I never do in

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the morning and turned on the TV. The audiowasn’t working. The screen was. And on everychannel—and here there are almost a hundred—you saw a tower of the World Trade Centerburning like a giant match. A short circuit? Asmall plane gone off course? Or an act ofdeliberate terrorism? I stayed there almostparalyzed, fixed on that tower, and while I fixedon it, while I asked myself those threequestions, another plane appeared on thescreen. White, huge. An airliner. It was flyingextremely low. Flying low, it turned toward thesecond tower like a bomber who draws a beadon a target and then hurls himself at it. That’swhen I understood. I also understood because inthat same moment the audio came back on andtransmitted a chorus of primal screams.Repeated and primal. "God! Oh, God! Oh, God,God, God! Gooooooood!" And the plane wentinto that second tower like a knife going into astick of butter.

By now it was quarter past nine. Don’t ask mewhat I felt during those fifteen minutes. I don’tknow, I don’t remember. I was a piece of ice.Even my brain was ice. I don’t even rememberwhether certain things I saw were from the firsttower or the second. For example, the people

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who threw themselves from the eightieth orninetieth floor to avoid being burned alive. Theybroke the glass of the windows, they climbed upand jumped out like someone who jumps out ofan airplane with a parachute on. They camedown so slowly, waving their arms and legs,swimming in the air. Yes, they seemed to swimin the air, never arriving. Around the thirtiethfloor though, they sped up. They started togesture desperately, penitently I imagine, almostas though they were shouting for help. Andmaybe they really were. Finally they fell likerocks and splat. You know, I thought I’d seeneverything in war. I’d considered myselfvaccinated against war, and in substance I am.Nothing surprises me anymore. Not even when Iget angry, not even when I get indignant. But inwar I’d always seen people who died by thehand of others. I’d never seen people who diekilling themselves, throwing themselves withoutparachutes from the eightieth or ninetieth orhundredth floor. In war, I’d always seen thingsthat explode. That blow up in all directions. AndI’d always heard a huge racket. Those twotowers though, didn’t explode. The firstimploded, swallowed itself. The second fusedand melted. It melted just like a stick of butterplaced on the fire. And it all happened, or so it

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seemed to me, in tomblike silence. Is thatpossible? Was that silence real, or was it insideme?

I also have to say that in war I’d always seen alimited number of deaths. Every battle, two orthree hundred dead. Four hundred at most. Likeat Dak To in Vietnam. And when the battle wasfinished, the Americans would gather up andcount them. I couldn’t believe my eyes. In themassacre of Mexico City, the one where I caughta fair number of bullets myself, they gathered atleast eight hundred dead. And when, thinkingme dead, they stuck me in the morgue, thecadavers I soon found around and on myselfseemed like a deluge. Well, almost fiftythousand people worked in the two towers. Andvery few had time to evacuate. The elevatorsdidn’t work any more, obviously, and to godown on foot from the highest floors wouldhave taken an eternity. Flames permitting. We’llnever know the number of dead. (Fortythousand, fifty thousand?) The Americans willnever tell, so as not to underline the intensity ofthis apocalypse. So as not to give satisfaction toOsama Bin Laden and encourage otherapocalypses. And anyway the two abysses thatabsorbed those tens of thousands of creatures

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are too deep. At most the workers will unearthpieces of scattered members. A nose here, afinger there. Or else a kind of paste that seemslike ground coffee but is actually organicmaterial. The residue of bodies pulverized in aflash. Yesterday the mayor Guiliani sent morethan ten thousand body bags. But they wentunused.

What do I feel for the kamikazes who died withthem? No respect. No pity. No, not even pity, Iwho always wind up giving in to pity. I’ve alwaysdisliked kamikazes, that is people who commitsuicide in order to kill others. Starting with theJapanese ones from World War II. I neverconsidered them Pietro Miccas who torch thepowder and go up with the citadel in order toblock the arrival of the enemy troops at Torino.I never considered them soldiers. Even less do Iconsider them martyrs or heroes, as Mr. Arafat,hollering and spitting saliva, described them tome in 1972. (Or when I interviewed him atAmman, where his marshals were also trainingthe Badder-Meinhof terrorists.) I just considerthem vain. Vain people who instead of seekingglory in cinema or politics or sports seek it inthe death of themselves and others. A deaththat, in place of an Oscar or a ministerial seat or

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a medal, will get them (they think) admiration.And, in the case of those who pray to Allah, aplace in the paradise that the Koran speaks of:the paradise where heroes get to fuck houris. I’llbet they’re even physically vain. I have in frontof me a photo of the two kamikaze I speak of inmy novel Inshallah: the novel that begins withthe destruction of the American base (more thanfour hundred dead) and the French base (morethan three hundred fifty dead) at Beirut. They’dhad it taken before going to die, this photo, andbefore going to die they’d gone to the barber.See what lovely haircuts. What pomadedmoustaches, what well–groomed little beards,what coquettish sideburns...

I can just imagine how Mr. Arafat would seethewith rage to hear me. There’s bad blood betweenus, you know. He never forgave me, either forthe scorching differences of opinion we hadduring that meeting or for the judgments Iexpressed about him in my book Interview WithHistory. As for me, I never forgave himanything. Including the fact that an Italianjournalist who imprudently presented himselfas "a friend of mine" found himself with arevolver pointed at his heart. So we don’t seeeach other any more. It’s too bad. Because if I

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met him again, or rather if I were to grant himan audience, I’d scream in his face who themartyrs and heroes are. I’d scream: "IllustriousMr. Arafat, the martyrs are the passengers ofthe four airplanes that were hijacked andtransformed into human bombs. Among them isa four year old little girl who disintegrated inthe second tower. Illustrious Mr. Arafat, themartyrs are the employees who worked in thetwo towers and at the Pentagon. Illustrious Mr.Arafat, the martyrs are the firemen who diedtrying to save them. And do you know who theheroes are? The passengers of the flight thatwas supposed to throw itself into the WhiteHouse but instead crashed into the woods inPennsylvania because they fought back! Thereought to be a paradise for them, illustrious Mr.Arafat. The real problem is that you are now aperpetual head of state. You play the monarch.You visit the pope, announce that youdisapprove of terrorism, send condolences toBush." And in his chameleon–like ability tocontradict himself, he’d even be capable oftelling me I’m right. But let’s change the subject.I’m very sick, as you know, and talking with thelikes of Arafat gives me a fever.

I prefer to talk about the invulnerability that

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many, in Europe, attributed to America.Invulnerability? What invulnerability? The moredemocratic and open a society is, the more it’sexposed to terrorism. The more a country isfree, not governed by a police regime, the moreit risks hijackings or massacres like the onesthat took place for many years in Italy andGermany and other parts of Europe. And thatnow take place, magnified, in America. It’s noaccident that non-democratic countries,countries governed by a police regime, havealways hosted and financed and helpedterrorists. The Soviet Union, the Soviet Union'ssatellites and the People’s Republic of China, forexample. Ghadaffi's Libya, Iraq, Iran, Syria,Arafat's Lebanon, Egypt itself, that same SaudiArabia of which Osama Bin Laden is a citizen,Pakistan, Afghanistan, of course, and all theIslamic African regions. In those countries’airports or airplanes I have always felt safe.Tranquil as a sleeping newborn. The only thing Iwas afraid of was being arrested because I usedto write bad things about the terrorists. InEuropean airports and airplanes, on the otherhand, I always felt uneasy. In American airportsand airplanes I actually felt nervous. Twice asnervous in New York. (Not in Washington DC,though. The plane at the Pentagon was a

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complete surprise to me.) In my opinion it wasultimately never an issue of "if": it was alwaysone of "when." Why do you think that onTuesday morning my subconscious felt thatanxiety, that sensation of danger? Why do youthink that despite my habits I turned on the TV?Why do you think that one of the threequestions I was asking myself while the firsttower was burning and the audio wasn’t workingwas that of a terrorist attack? Why do you thinkthat when the second airplane appeared Iimmediately understood? Since America is thestrongest country in the world, the richest, themost powerful, the most modern, almosteveryone fell into that trap. The Americans didthemselves, at times. But America’s vulnerabilitycomes precisely from its strength, its wealth, itspower and its modernity. It’s the usual story ofthe dog chasing its own tail.

It comes from America’s multi-ethnic being, itsliberality, its respect for its citizens and guests.Example: about 24 million Americans areMuslim-Arabs. And when a Mustafa or aMohammed comes, say from Afghanistan, tovisit his uncle, nobody tells him he can’t attendpilot training school to learn how to fly a 757 jetairplane. Nobody can keep him from enrolling in

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a University (something I hope will change) tostudy chemistry and biology: the two sciencesnecessary to wage bacteriological war. Nobody.Not even if the government fears that this sonof Allah might hijack that 757 or that he mighttoss a vial full of bacteria into the reservoir andunleash a disaster. (I say “if” because this timethe government knew absolutely nothing andthe disgrace of the CIA and FBI goes beyond allbounds. If I were President of the United StatesI’d send them all packing for stupidity with well-placed kicks to the posterior.) Having said that,let’s go back to the original thought. What arethe symbols of American strength, wealth,power and modernity? Certainly not jazz androck and roll, not chewing-gum or hamburgers,Broadway or Hollywood. It’s their skyscrapers.Their Pentagon. Their science. Their technology.

Those impressive skyscrapers, so tall, sobeautiful that while you raise your eyes to gazeat them you almost forget the pyramids and thedivine buildings of our past. Those giganticairplanes, oversized, which they now use as theyonce used sailing ships or trucks becauseeverything here is moved by airplane.Everything. The mail, fresh fish, ourselves. (Anddon’t forget that they invented the air war. Or at

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least they’re the ones who developed it to thepoint of absurdity.) That terrifying Pentagon,that fortress which scares you just looking at it.That all–present, all–powerful science. Thatchilling technology that in a few short years hascompletely changed our daily lives, ourmillennial ways of communicating, eating, living.And where did he strike them, the reverendOsama Bin Laden? In the skyscrapers and in thePentagon. How? With airplanes, with science andtechnology. By the way: do you know what getsme the most about this wretched multi–millionaire, this AWOL playboy who instead ofcourting blonde princesses and running wild inthe night clubs (as he used to do in Beirut whenhe was 20 years old) enjoys himself by killingpeople in the name of Mohammed and Allah?The fact that his endless wealth comes from theearnings of a corporation specializing indemolition, and that he himself is a demolitionsexpert. Demolition is an American specialty.

When we met I found you almost stupefied bythe heroic efficiency and admirable unity withwhich the Americans have faced thisApocalypse. That’s right. Despite all theshortcomings that always get rubbed in theirface—that I myself always rub in their face

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(though those of Europe, and of Italy inparticular, are even more serious)—America is acountry with important things to teach us. Andspeaking of heroic efficiency, let me sing apaean to the Mayor of New York. That RudolphGiuliani to whom we Italians should kneel ingratitude. Because he has an Italian last nameand an Italian origin and he makes us look goodbefore the whole world. Rudolph Giuliani is agreat mayor, one of the greatest. And that’scoming from someone who is never happy withanything or anyone, starting with myself. He’s amayor worthy of another great mayor with anItalian last name, Fiorello la Guardia, and manyof our mayors ought to go and study under him.They ought to come to him with bowed heads,or better with ash on their heads, and ask him:"Signor Giuliani, sir, please tell us how it’sdone."

He doesn’t delegate his duties to others, no. Hedoesn’t waste his time with bullshit and greed.He doesn’t split himself between the tasks of amayor and those of a minister or deputy (isanybody listening in the three cities of Stendhal—Naples, Florence and Rome?). He ran overthere immediately, and immediately entered thesecond tower, at the risk of being turned to

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ashes with all the others. He only made it out bya hair and only by chance. And in the space offour days he put this city back on its feet. A citywith nine and a half million inhabitants, mindyou, and almost two million in Manhattan alone.How he did it, I don’t know. He’s sick like me,the poor man. The cancer that comes andreturns has got him, too. And, like me, hepretends to be healthy: he works anyway. But Iwork at a desk, for God’s sake, sitting down! He,on the other hand...He looked like a general whojoins the battle in person. A soldier who chargeswith his bayonet: "Come on, people, come on!!!Let’s roll up our sleeves, move!" But he could doit because those people were, are, like him.People without airs and without laziness, myfather would have said, and with balls. As forthe admirable ability to unite, the almost martialcompactness with which the Americans respondto disaster and to the enemy, well: I have toadmit that then and there I was astounded aswell. I knew, yes, that it had exploded at thetime of Pearl Harbor, that is when the peoplehuddled around Roosevelt and Rooseveltentered the war against the Germany of Hitlerand the Italy of Mussolini and the Japan ofHirohito. I had caught a whiff of it, yes, afterKennedy’s assassination.

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But that had been followed by the war inVietnam, the lacerating rift caused by the war inVietnam, and in a certain sense it had remindedme of their Civil War of a century and a halfago. So, when I saw whites and blacks crying ineach other’s arms—and I mean in each other’sarms—when I saw Democrats and Republicansarm in arm singing "God Bless America", when Isaw them drop all their differences, I wasflabbergasted. Just as I was when I heard BillClinton (someone for whom I've never harboredmuch tenderness) declare: "We must standbehind Bush. We must have faith in ourpresident." I felt the same when those samewords were forcefully repeated by his wifeHillary, now senator for the State of New York.And when they were reiterated by Lieberman,the ex–Democratic candidate for the vice–presidency. (Only the defeated Al Gore remainedsqualidly silent). I felt the same when Congressvoted unanimously to accept war and punishthose responsible.

Oh, if only Italy would learn this lesson! It’ssuch a divided country, Italy. So factious, sopoisoned by tribal pettiness! They hate eachother even within their own parties in Italy.They can’t stick together even when they have

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the same emblem, or the same banner, for God’ssake! Jealous, bilious, vain, small, they thinkonly of their own personal interests. Of theirown careers, their own petty glory, their ownsmall–town popularity. For the sake of theirpersonal interests they spite each other, theybetray each other, they accuse each other, theyexpose each other...I am absolutely convincedthat, if Osama Bin Laden were to blow upGiotto’s tower or the Tower of Pisa, theopposition would blame the government. Andthe government would blame the opposition.The heads of the government and the heads ofthe opposition would blame their own partypeople and comrades. And having said this, letme explain where the ability to unite thatcharacterizes the Americans comes from.

It comes from their patriotism. I don’t knowwhether in Italy you saw and understood whathappened in New York when Bush went to thankthe rescue men (and women) who are digging inthe ruins of the two towers trying to save somesurvivor but only coming up with the occasionalnose or finger. In spite of this, they do itwithout giving up. Without resigningthemselves, so that if you ask them how they doit they say: "I can allow myself to be exhausted,

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but not to be defeated." All of them. The young,the very young, the old, the middle aged. White,black, yellow, brown, purple...You saw them,didn’t you? While Bush was thanking them allthey did was wave their little American flags,raise their clenched fists, and roar: "USA! USA!"In a totalitarian country I’d have thought: "Lookhow nicely organized this was by the PowersThat Be!" Not in America. In America you don’torganize these things. You don’t manage them,you don’t command them. Especially in adisenchanted metropolis like New York and withworkers like New York workers. New Yorkworkers are real pieces of work. Freer than thewind. They don’t even obey their unions. But ifyou touch their flag, or their Patria...In Englishthe word Patria doesn’t exist. To say Patria youhave to put two words together. Father Land.Mother Land. Native Land. Or you can simplysay My Country. But they have the noun"patriotism." They have the adjective "patriotic."And apart from France, I can’t imagine a countrymore patriotic than America. God! I was somoved to see those workers clenching their fistsand waving their flags and roaring USA–USA–USA, without anyone ordering them to.

And I felt a kind of humiliation. Because I can’t

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even begin to imagine Italian workers wavingthe tricolor and roaring Italia–Italia. Oh, I’veseen them wave plenty of red flags in themarches and rallies. Rivers, lakes, of red flags.But never very many tricolor flags. None at all,actually. Ill–led or tyrannized by an arrogant leftdevoted to the Soviet Union, they always left thetricolor flags to their adversaries. Not that theadversaries made very good use of them, I’d say.Nor did they waste them either, thank God. Andthose who go to Mass, ditto. As for that yahoowith the green shirt and tie, he doesn’t evenknow what colors make up the tricolor. I–am–Lombard, I–am–Lombard. That guy wants to takeus back to the wars between between Florenceand Siena. So the result is that today you see theItalian flag only at the Olympics if you happento win a medal. Worse: you see it only in thestadiums, when there’s an international soccermatch. Which is also, by the way, the only timeyou’ll ever hear a cry of Italia–Italia.

Well let me tell you something. There’s a bigdifference between a country in which the flagis waved only by hooligans in a stadium and acountry where it’s waved by the entirepopulation. Waved, for example, by indomitableworkers who dig in the ruins to come up with

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an ear or nose of the creatures slaughtered bythe sons of Allah. Or to gather the groundcoffee.

The truth is that America is a special place, myfriend. A country to envy, to be jealous of, forreasons that have nothing to do with wealth etcetera. It’s special because it was born out of aneed of the soul, the need to have a homeland,and out of the most sublime idea that Man hasever conceived: the idea of liberty, or rather ofliberty married to the idea of equality. It’sspecial also because the idea of liberty wasn’tfashionable at the time. Nor was the idea ofequality. Nobody was talking about these thingsbut a few philosophers of the so–calledEnlightenment. You couldn’t find these conceptsanywhere except in big expensive booksreleased in installments and calledEncyclopedias. And apart from the writers orthe other intellectuals, apart from the princesand the lords who had the money to buy the bigbook or the books that inspired the big book,who knew anything about the Enlightenment?The Enlightenment wasn’t something you couldeat! Not even the revolutionaries of the FrenchRevolution were talking about it, seeing how theFrench Revolution didn’t start until 1789,

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thirteen years after the American Revolutionexploded in 1776. (Another detail that the anti–Americans of the good–it–serves–America–rightschool ignore or pretend to forget. Bunch ofhypocrites!)

What’s more, it’s a special country, a country toenvy, because that idea was understood by oftenilliterate and certainly uneducated farmers. Thefarmers of the American colonies. And becauseit was materialized by a small group ofextraordinary men. By men of great culture,great quality. The Founding Fathers. Do youhave any idea who the Founding Fathers were,the Benjamin Franklins and the ThomasJeffersons and the Thomas Paines and the JohnAdamses and the George Washingtons and soon? These weren’t the small–time lawyers("avvocaticchi" as Vittorio Alfieri rightly calledthem) of the French Revolution! These weren’tthe brooding and hysterical executioners of theTerror, the Marats and the Dantons and theSaint Justs and the Robespierres! These werepeople, these Founding Fathers, who knewGreek and Latin like our own Italian teachers ofGreek and Latin (assuming there still are any)will never know them. People who had readAristotle and Plato in Greek, who had read

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Seneca and Cicero in Latin, and who had studiedthe principles of Greek democracy like not eventhe Marxists of my day studied the theory ofsurplus value. (Assuming they really did studyit.) Jefferson even knew Italian. (He called it"Toscano".) He spoke and read in Italian withgreat fluency. In 1774 as a matter of fact, alongwith the two thousand vine plants and thethousand olive trees and the music paper whichwas rare in Virginia, the Florentine FilippoMazzei brought him multiple copies of a bookwritten by a certain Cesare Beccaria entitled "OfCrimes and Punishments." As for the self–taughtFranklin, he was a genius. Scientist, printer,editor, writer, journalist, politician, inventor. In1752 he discovered the electric nature oflightning and invented the lightning rod. Is thatenough for you? And it was with theseextraordinary leaders, these men of greatquality, that the often illiterate and certainlyuneducated farmers rebelled against England in1776. They fought the War of Independence, theAmerican Revolution.

Well, despite the muskets and the gun powder,despite the death toll that is the cost of everywar, they didn’t do it with the rivers of blood ofthe future French Revolution. They didn’t do it

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with the guillotine and massacres at Vandea.They did it with a piece of paper that, alongwith the need of the soul, the need to have ahomeland, put into effect the sublime idea ofliberty—or rather of liberty married to quality.The Declaration of Independence. "We holdthese Truths to be self–evident: that all men arecreated equal; that they are endowed by theirCreator with certain unalienable rights; thatamong these are Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit ofHappiness; that, to secure these rights,governments are instituted among men..." Andthat piece of paper that we’ve all been copyingwell or badly from the French Revolution on, orfrom which we’ve drawn our inspiration, is stillthe backbone of America. The vital lymph ofthis nation. You know why? Because it turns theplebes into the People. Because it invites them,rather orders them, to govern themselves, toexpress their own individuality, to pursue theirown happiness. All the opposite of whatcommunism did, prohibiting people to rebel, togovern themselves, to express themselves, to getrich, and setting up His Majesty the State inplace of the customary kings. My father used tosay, "Communism is a monarchic regime, andit’s an old–school monarchy. Because it cuts offmen’s balls. And when you cut off a man’s balls,

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he’s no longer a man." He also used to say thatinstead of freeing the plebes, communismturned everyone into plebes. It made everyonestarve to death.

Well, in my view America frees the plebes.Everyone is a plebe there. White, black, yellow,brown, purple, stupid, intelligent, poor, rich.Actually the rich are the most plebeian of all.Most of the time they’re such boors! Crude, ill–mannered. You can tell immediately that they’venever read Galateo, that they’ve never hadanything to do with refinement and good tasteand sophistication. In spite of the money theywaste on clothes, for example, they’re soinelegant as to make the Queen of England lookchic by comparison. But they are freed, by God.And in this world there is nothing stronger ormore powerful than freed plebes. You willalways get your skull cracked when you go upagainst the Freed Plebe. And they all got theirskulls cracked by America: English, Germans,Mexicans, Russians, Nazis, Fascists,Communists. Even the Vietnamese got theirscracked in the end, when they had to come toterms after their victory so that now when aformer president of the United States goes thereto visit they're in seventh heaven. "Bienvenu,

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Monsieur le President, bienvenu!" The problemis that the Vietnamese don’t pray to Allah. It’sgoing to be much harder to deal with the sonsof Allah. Much longer and much harder. Unlessthe rest of the Western world stops peeing itspants. And starts reasoning a little and givesthem a hand.

I am not speaking, obviously, to the laughinghyenas who enjoy seeing images of thewreckage and snicker good–it–serves–the–Americans–right. I am speaking to those who,though not stupid or evil, are wallowing inprudence and doubt. And to them I say: "Wakeup, people. Wake up!!" Intimidated as you are byyour fear of going against the current—that is,appearing racist (a word which is entirely inaptas we are speaking not about a race but about areligion)—you don’t understand or don’t want tounderstand that a reverse–Crusade is inprogress. Accustomed as you are to the double–cross, blinded as you are by myopia, you don’tunderstand or don’t want to understand that awar of religion is in progress. Desired anddeclared by a fringe of that religion, perhaps,but a war of religion nonetheless. A war whichthey call Jihad. Holy War. A war that might notseek to conquer our territory, but that certainly

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seeks to conquer our souls. That seeks thedisappearance of our freedom and ourcivilization. That seeks to annihilate our way ofliving and dying, our way of praying or notpraying, our way of eating and drinking anddressing and entertaining and informingourselves. You don’t understand or don’t wantto understand that if we don’t oppose them, ifwe don’t defend ourselves, if we don’t fight, theJihad will win. And it will destroy the world thatfor better or worse we’ve managed to build, tochange, to improve, to render a little moreintelligent, that is to say, less bigoted—or evennot bigoted at all. And with that it will destroyour culture, our art, our science, our morals, ourvalues, our pleasures...Christ! Don’t you realizethat the Osama Bin Ladens feel authorized tokill you and your children because you drinkwine or beer, because you don’t wear your beardlong or a chador, because you go to the theateror the movies, because you listen to music andsing pop songs, because you dance in discos orat home, because you watch TV, wear miniskirtsor short–shorts, because you go naked or halfnaked to the beach or the pool, because youfuck when you want and where you want andwho you want? Don’t you even care about that,you fools? I am an atheist, thank God. And I

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have no intention of letting myself be killed forit.

For twenty years I’ve been saying it. For twentyyears. With a certain meekness, not with thispassion, twenty years ago I wrote an editorial onthis subject for the Corriere. It was an article bya person used to being with all races and allcreeds, a citizen used to fighting all forms offascism and intolerance, a lay person withouttaboos. But it was also an article by a personindignant at those who failed to smell thestench of a coming Holy War and who wereletting the the sons of Allah get away with alittle too much. I made an argument that wentmore or less like this, twenty years ago: "Whatsense is there in respecting those who don’trespect us? What sense is there in defendingtheir culture or presumed culture when theyscorn ours? I want to defend ours and I aminforming you that I prefer Dante to OmarKhayan."

The sky came crashing down. They crucified me:"Racist! Racist!" It was these same progressives(who at the time called themselves communists)who crucified me. I got the same treatmentwhen the Soviets invaded Afghanistan. Do you

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remember those bearded men with the gownsand the turbans who, before firing theirmortars–or rather with each shot—shoutedGod’s praises? "Allah akbar! Allah akbar!" Iremember them very well. And I used to shiverhearing the word God coupled with the shot ofa mortar. I thought I was back in the MiddleAges and I said: "The Soviets are what they are.But we have to admit that by waging that warthey are protecting us, too. And I for one thankthem." Again the sky came crashing down."Racist! Racist!" In their blindness they didn’teven want me to speak of the monstrosities thatthe sons of Allah were committing on theirPOWs (they would cut off their legs and arms,remember? A little vice in which they’d alreadyindulged in Lebanon with their Christian andJewish prisoners.) They didn’t want me to say it,no. And just to be progressive they wouldapplaud the Americans who, having lost theirmarbles in fear of the Soviet Union, were armingthe heroic–Afghan–people. They trained thosebearded men, and among them the most–bearded–one–of–all, Osama Bin Laden. Away–with–the–Russians–in–Afghanistaaaaan! The–Russians–must–go–from–Afghanistaaaan! Well,the Russians left Afghanistan. Happy? And fromAfghanistan the bearded men of the most–

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bearded Osama Bin Laden arrived in New Yorkwith the unbearded Syrians, Iraqis, Lebanese,Palestinians, and Saudis who made up the bandof the identified nineteen kamikaze. Happy?Worse: now people here speak of the next attackthat will hit us with chemical weapons, orbiological, or radioactive, or nuclear. People aresaying the next massacre is inevitable becauseIraq provides them with materials. People aretalking of vaccinations, of gas masks, of plague.People are wondering when it will happen.Happy?

Some are neither happy nor unhappy. Theycouldn’t care less. America's far away anyhow,there’s an ocean between America andEurope...oh, no, my dear friends. There’s a merethread of water. Because when the destiny ofthe West, the survival of our civilization is atstake, we are New York. We are America. WeItalians, we French, we English, we Germans, weAustrians, we Hungarians, we Slovaks, we Polish,we Scandinavians, we Belgians, we Spaniards, weGreeks, we Portuguese. If America falls, Europefalls. The West falls, we fall. And not just in afinancial sense, which seems to be what worriesyou the most. (Once when I was young andnaive, I said to Arthur Miller: "Americans

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measure everything with money, they only thinkof money." And Arthur Miller replied: "Youdon’t?") We fall in every sense, my friend. Andwe’ll find muezzin instead of church bells,chador instead of miniskirts, camel’s milkinstead of the old shot of cognac. Don’t yougrasp even this? Do you refuse to understandeven this?!? Blair understood it. He came hereand brought the solidarity of the English people.Renewed it, rather. Not a solidarity expressedwith chattering and whining: a solidarity basedon hunting down the terrorists and on militaryalliance. Chirac, on the other hand, didn’t. Asyou know, last week he was here for an officialvisit.

A visit scheduled a long time ago, not promptedby events. He saw the wreckage of the twotowers; he learned that the death toll isincalculable and unspeakable, but he sure didn’toverextend himself. During the interview withCNN, my friend Cristiana Amanpour asked asmany as four times in what way and to whatdegree he intended to take a stand against thisJihad, and four times Chirac avoided giving ananswer. He slipped away like an eel. One wantedto scream at him: "Monsieur le President!Remember the landing at Normandy? Do you

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know how many Americans croaked atNormandy to kick the Nazis out of France?"

Not that I see any Richard Lionhearts among theother Europeans either, apart from Blair.Certainly not in Italy where the government hasyet to single out, let alone arrest, a singleaccomplice or suspected accomplice of OsamaBin Laden. For God’s sake, Mr. Knight–of–Labor,for God’s sake!! In spite of their fear of war,every country in Europe has found and arrestedsome accomplice of Osama Bin Laden. In France,in Germany, in England, in Spain. But in Italy,where the mosques of Milan, Turin and Romeoverflow with scoundrels singing hymns toOsama Bin Laden and terrorists waiting to blowup Saint Peter’s cupola, not a one. Zero. Zilch.Nada. Please explain, Sir Knight: are yourpolicemen and carabinieri that inept? Yoursecret services that idiotic? Your civil servantsthat stupid? And are the sons of Allah we hostall saints, all unaware of what happened and ishappening? Or is it that if you make the rightinquiries, if you single out and arrest those youhaven’t singled out and arrested so far, you’reafraid of being tagged with the old racist–racistlabel? I, as you can see, am not.

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Christ! I don’t deny anyone the right to beafraid. Anyone who’s not afraid of war is anidiot. And as I’ve written a thousand timesbefore, anyone who acts as though he’s notafraid of war is both an idiot and a liar. But inLife and in History there are times when one isnot permitted to be afraid. Times when beingafraid is immoral and uncivilized. And thosewho evade this tragedy out of weakness or lackof courage or habitual fence–straddling strikeme as masochists.

Masochists, yes, masochists. Why? Do you wantto talk about what you call the Contrast–between–the–Two–Cultures? Well, if you reallymust know, it bothers me to even talk abouttwo cultures: to put them on the same plane asthough they were two parallel realities of equalweight and equal measure. Because behind ourcivilization we have Homer, Socrates, Plato,Aristotle, Phydias, for God’s sake. We haveancient Greece with its Parthenon and itsdiscovery of Democracy. We have ancient Romewith its greatness, its laws, its concept of Law.Its sculptures, its literature, its architecture. Itsbuildings, its amphitheaters, its aqueducts, itsbridges and its roads. We have a revolutionary,that Christ who died on the cross, who taught

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us (too bad if we didn’t learn it) the concept oflove and of justice. Yes, I know, there’s also aChurch that gave me the Inquisition. Thattortured me and burned me a thousand times atthe stake. That oppressed me for centuries, thatfor centuries forced me to sculpt and paint onlyChrists and Madonnas, that almost killed GalileoGalilei. Humiliated him, shut him up. But it alsomade a great contribution to the History ofThought: Yes or no? And then behind ourcivilization we also have the Renaissance. Wehave Leonardo da Vinci, we have Michaelangelo,we have Raphael, we have the music of Bach andMozart and Beethoven. And on and on throughRossini and Donizetti and Verdi and Company.That music without which we could not live andwhich is prohibited in their culture or supposedculture. God forbid you should whistle a tune orhum the chorus of Nabucco. And finally we haveScience, for God’s sake. A science that hasunderstood a lot of diseases and that curesthem. I am still alive, for now, thanks to ourscience. Not Mohammed’s. A science that hasinvented marvellous machines. The train, thecar, the airplane, the spaceships with whichwe’ve gone to the Moon and Mars and soon willgo who knows where. A science that haschanged the face of this planet with electricity,

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the radio, the telephone, the TV, and by the way:is it true that the gurus of the left don’t want tosay what I have just said?!? God, what pricks!They will never change.

And now the fatal question: what is behind theother culture? Damned if I know. I search andsearch and find only Mohammed with his Koranand Averroe with his scholarly merits (TheCommentaries on Aristotle, et cetera.) Arafatalso finds numbers and math. Again yelling inmy face, again covering me with spit, he told mein 1972 that his culture was superior to mine,far superior to mine, because his grandparentshad invented numbers and math. But Arafat hasa short memory. That’s why he changes hismind and contradicts himself every fiveminutes. His grandparents did not inventnumbers and math. They invented the graphicsymbols for numbers that we infidels use aswell. Math was conceived almost simultaneouslyby all ancient civilizations. In Mesopotamia, inGreece, in India, in China, in Egypt, among theMayans...Your grandparents, my illustrious Mr.Arafat, left us nothing but a few beautifulmosques and a book they’ve been breaking myballs with for the past thousand four hundredyears like not even the Christians do with their

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Bible or the Jews with their Torah. And now let’ssee just what are the positive features thatdistinguish this Koran. Positive, really? Eversince the sons of Allah half–destroyed NewYork, the scholars of Islam have done nothingbut sing the praises of Mohammed, explain howthe Koran preaches peace, brotherhood andjustice. (Even Bush has been chiming in. PoorBush. It goes without saying that Bush has tokeep on good terms with the twenty–fourmillion Muslim–Americans, convince them tosqueal what they know about the relatives,friends or acquaintances who might turn out tobe devoted to Osama Bin Laden). So what do wedo with the whole Eye–for–an–Eye–Tooth–for–a–Tooth business? What do we do with the chador,or better with the veil that covers the faces ofMuslim women so that in order to glance at theperson next to them the poor wretches have topeer through a close–meshed net at eye–level?What do we do with polygamy and the principlethat women count less than camels, that theycan’t go to school, they can’t go to the doctor,they can’t have their pictures taken, etc.? Whatdo we do with the veto on alcohol and the deathpenalty for those who drink it? This is in theKoran, too. And it doesn’t seem all that just, allthat brotherly, all that peaceful.

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So here’s my answer to your question on theContrast–between–the–Two–Cultures: I say inthis world there’s room for everyone. In yourown home you can do whatever you want. Andif in some countries the women are so stupid asto accept the chador, or rather the veil you peerout of through a close-meshed net at eye level,that’s their problem. If they are such birdbrainsas to accept not going to school, not going tothe doctor, not having their pictures taken,that’s their problem. If they are such idiots as tomarry some asshole who wants four wives,that’s their problem. If their men are so silly asnot to drink beer or wine, ditto. Far be it fromme to stand in their way. I was raised with theconcept of liberty, I was, and my mother used tosay: "Variety is what makes the world beautiful."But if they presume to impose the same thingson me, in my home...And they do presume it.Osama Bin Laden says that the entire planetEarth must become Muslim, that we mustconvert to Islam, that he will convert us by fairmeans or foul, that this is why he massacres usand will continue to do so. And this can’t bepleasing to us. It can’t help but make us itch toturn the tables and kill him. But this thing won’tend, won’t die out with the death of Osama BinLaden. Because there are tens of thousands of

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Osama Bin Ladens by now, and they’re not onlyin Afghanistan or in other Arabic countries.They’re everywhere, and the most hardenedones are right in the Western world. In ourcities, in our roads, in our universities, in theganglions of technology. That technology thatany dolt can handle. The Crusade has been inprogress for some time. It works like a Swisswatch, sustained by a faith and a malicecomparable only to the faith and malice ofTorquemada when he led the Inquisition. Thefact is that dealing with them is impossible.Reasoning, unthinkable. Treating them withindulgence, tolerance or hope, suicide. Whoeverthinks differently is deluded.

This is coming from one who has known thistype of fanaticism rather well in Iran, inPakistan, in Bangladesh, in Saudia Arabia, inKuwait, in Libya, in Jordan, in Lebanon, and athome. That is, in Italy. Known it, and had itchillingly confirmed through a number of trivialepisodes—or rather, grotesque ones. I’ll neverforget what happened to me at the IranianEmbassy in Rome when I asked for a visa to goto Teheran, to interview Khomeini, and I showedup wearing red nail polish. To them, this is asign of immorality. They treated me like a whore

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to be burned at the stake. They ordered me totake off that red immediately. And if I hadn’ttold them, or rather screamed at them, what Ireally felt like taking off—or better yet, cuttingoff of them...Nor can I forget what happened inQom, Khomeini’s holy city where as a woman Iwas turned away from all the hotels. Tointerview Khomeini I had to wear chador, to puton the chador I had to take off my jeans, to takeoff my jeans I had to find a secluded place.Naturally, I could have performed the operationin the car in which I had arrived from Teheran.But the interpreter wouldn’t let me. You’re–crazy, you’re–crazy, you–get–shot–in–Qom–for–doing–something–like–that. He preferred tobring me to the former Royal Palace where amerciful custodian took us in and let us use theformer Throne Room. I actually felt like theVirgin Mary who has to take refuge with Josephin the barn heated by the donkey and the ox togive birth to Baby Jesus. But the Koran forbids aman and a woman not married to each other tobe alone behind a closed door, and alas, all of asudden the door opened. The mullah in chargeof Morality Control barged in screaming shame–shame, sin–sin, and there was only one way notto wind up being shot: get married. Sign thetemporary (four months) marriage certificate

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the mullah was fanning in our faces. Theproblem was that the interpreter had a Spanishwife, a woman by the name of Consuelo whowas not at all disposed to accept polygamy, andI didn’t want to marry anyone. Least of all anIranian with a Spanish wife not at all disposedto accept polygamy. At the same time I didn’twant to be shot, that is, miss my interview withKhomeini. As I was debating what to do in thisdilemma...

You’re laughing, I’m sure. These seem like jokesto you. In that case, I won’t tell you the rest ofthis episode. To make you cry I’ll tell you aboutthe twelve young impure men I saw executed atDacca at the end of the Bangladesh war. Theyexecuted them on the field of Dacca stadium,with bayonet blows to the torso or abdomen, inthe presence of twenty thousand faithful whoapplauded in the name of God from thebleachers. They thundered "Allah akbar, Allahakbar." Yes, I know: the ancient Romans, thoseancient Romans of whom my culture is soproud, entertained themselves in the Coliseumby watching the deaths of Christians fed to thelions. I know, I know: in every country of Europethe Christians, those Christians whosecontribution to the History of Thought I

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recognize despite my atheism, entertainedthemselves by watching the burning of heretics.But a lot of time has passed since then, we havebecome a little more civilized, and even the sonsof Allah ought to have figured out by now thatcertain things are just not done. After the twelveimpure young men they killed a little boy whohad thrown himself at the executioners to savehis brother who had been condemned to death.They smashed his head with their combat boots.And if you don’t believe it, well, reread myreport or the reports of the French and Germanjournalists who, horrified as I was, were therewith me. Or better: look at the photographs thatone of them took. Anyway this isn’t even what Iwant to underline. It’s that, at the conclusion ofthe slaughter, the twenty thousand faithful(many of whom were women) left the bleachersand went down on the field. Not as adisorganized mob, no. In an orderly manner,with solemnity. They slowly formed a line and,again in the name of God, walked over thecadavers. All the while thundering Allah–akbar,Allah–akbar. They destroyed them like the TwinTowers of New York. They reduced them to ableeding carpet of smashed bones.

Oh, I could go on ad infinitum. Tell you things

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never told, things to make your hair stand onend. About that dotard Khomeini, for example,who after our interview held an assembly atQom to declare that I had accused him ofcutting off women’s breasts. He extracted avideo from this assembly that was shown formonths on Teheran television so that, when Ireturned to Teheran the next year, I wasarrested as soon as I got off the plane. It lookedbad for me, you know, very bad. This was theperiod of the American hostages...I could tellyou about Mujib Rahman, who, again at Dacca,had ordered his guerillas to eliminate me as adangerous European, and lucky for me anEnglish colonel saved me at the risk of his life.Or about that Palestinian named Habash whoheld me for twenty minutes with a machine gunpointed at my head. God, what people! The onlyones I’ve had a civil relationship with remainpoor Ali Bhutto, the first prime minister ofPakistan, who was hanged because he was toofriendly to the West, and the most excellent kingof Jordan: King Hussein. But those two were asMuslim as I am Catholic. Anyway I want to getto the point of my argument. A point that willnot please many, given that defending one’sown culture, in Italy, is becoming a mortal sin.And given that, intimidated by the inapt term

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"racist," everyone shuts up like rabbits.

I don’t go pitching tents at Mecca. I don’t gosinging Our Fathers and Hail Marys in front ofMohammed’s tomb. I don’t go peeing on themarble of their mosques; I don’t go shitting atthe feet of their minarets. When I find myself intheir countries (something from which I neverderive pleasure), I never forget that I am a guestand a foreigner. I am careful not to offend themwith clothing or gestures or behavior that arenormal for us but impermissible to them. I treatthem with dutiful respect, dutiful courtesy, andI excuse myself when through mistake orignorance I infringe some rule or superstition oftheirs. And the images I’ve had before my eyeswhile writing this scream of pain andindignation haven’t always been those of theapocalyptic scenes I started with. Sometimes Isee another image instead, a symbolic (andtherefore infuriating) one: the huge tent withwhich the Somalian Muslims disfigured andbefouled and profaned the Piazza del Duomo atFlorence for three months last summer. My city.

A tent put up in order to beg–condemn–insultthe Italian government that hosted them butwouldn’t give them the papers necessary to rove

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about Europe and wouldn’t let them bring thehordes of their relatives to Italy. Mothers,fathers, brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts, cousins,pregnant sisters–in–law, and if they had theirway, their relatives’ relatives as well. A tentsituated next to the beautiful palazzo of theArchbishop on whose sidewalk they kept theshoes or sandals that are lined up outside themosques in their countries. And along with theshoes or sandals, the empty bottles of waterthey’d used to wash their feet before praying. Atent placed in front of the cathedral withBrunelleschi’s cupola and by the side of theBaptistery with Ghiberti’s golden doors. A tent,finally, furnished like a sleazy little apartment:seats, tables, chaise–lounges, mattresses forsleeping and for fucking, ovens for cooking foodand plaguing the piazza with smoke and stench.And, thanks to the customary irresponsibility ofENEL, which cares about our works of art aboutas much as it cares about our landscape,furnished with electric light. Thanks to a radiotape player, enriched by the uncouth wailing ofa muezzin who punctually exorted the faithful,deafened the infidels, and smothered the soundof the church bells. Add to all this the yellowstreaks of urine that profaned the marble of theBaptistry. (My, these sons of Allah sure have a

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long range! However did they manage to hit thetarget when they were held back by a protectiverailing that kept it nearly two whole metersaway from their urinary equipment?) And alongwith the yellow streaks of urine, the stench ofthe excrement that blocked the door of SanSalvatore al Vescovo: that exquisite Romanesquechurch (year 1000) that stands at the rear of thePiazza del Duomo and that the sons of Allahtransformed into a shithouse. You’re well awareof this.

You’re well aware because I’m the one whocalled you, begged you to talk about it in theCorriere, remember? I also called the mayor,who, I admit, came politely to my house. Helistened to me, he agreed with me: "You’re right.You’re quite right." But he didn’t remove thetent. He forgot or he wasn’t able. I also calledthe Foreign Minister, who was a Florentine,indeed one of those Florentines who speakswith a very Florentine accent, not to mentionbeing involved in the whole affair. And he too, Iadmit, listened to me. He agreed with me: "Oh,yes. You’re right, yes." But he didn’t lift a fingerto remove that tent, and as for the sons of Allahwho urinated on the Baptistery and shat all overSan Salvatore al Vescovo, he moved quickly to

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appease them. (I understand that the fathersand mothers and brothers and sisters anduncles and aunts and cousins and pregnantsisters-in-law are now where they wanted to be.That is in Florence and in other cities ofEurope.) So I changed tactics. I called a nicepolice officer who directs the security office andsaid to him: "My dear officer, I am not apolitician. When I say I’m going to do something,I do it. I also know something about war andhave certain skills. If by tomorrow you don’t getthat fucking tent out of here, I will burn it. Iswear on my honor that I will burn it, that noteven a regiment of carabinieri could stop me,and I want to be arrested for it. Taken to jail inhandcuffs. That way I’ll get into all thenewspapers." Well, being more intelligent thanthe others, in the space of a few hours he gotrid of it. In place of the tent there remained onlyan immense and disgusting stain of filth. It wasa Pyrrhic victory, though. Because it had noeffect on the other atrocities that for years havewounded and humiliated what used to be thecapital of art and culture and beauty.

It did nothing to discourage the other arrogantguests of the city: the Albanians, the Sudanese,the Bengalese, the Tunisians, the Algerians, the

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Pakistani, the Nigerians who contribute with somuch fervor to the drug trade and prostitutionwhich, it appears, are not prohibited by theKoran. Oh yes: they’re all right where they werebefore my policeman took away the tent. In thecourtyard of the Uffizi Galleries, at the foot ofGiotto’s tower. In front of the Loggia dell’Orcagna, around the Loggie del Porcellino.Opposite the National Library, at the entrancesto the museums. On Ponte Vecchio where everyso often they kill each other with knives orrevolvers. Along the banks of the Arno wherethey asked for and received municipal funding.(That’s right, ladies and gentlemen: municipalfunding.) In the churchyard of San Lorenzowhere they get drunk on wine and beer andliquor, bunch of hypocrites, and where theyutter obscenities at women. (Last summer inthat churchyard they even tried it with me, anold lady. Needless to say they lived to regret it.Oooh, did they regret it! One of them’s stillthere whimpering over his genitals.) In thehistoric streets where they camp out on thepretext of selling merchandise. By"merchandise" I mean purses and bags illegallycopied from patented models, photo murals,pencils, African statuettes that ignorant touriststake for Bernini sculptures, stuff–to–sniff. ("Je

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connais mes droits, I know my rights" one ofthem hissed at me on Ponte Vecchio, one whoI’d seen selling stuff–to–sniff). And God forbidthat a citizen protest, God forbid that someonetell him to take–those–rights–of–yours–and–go–exercise–them–at–home. "Racist, racist!" Godforbid that a pedestrian brush up against apresumed Bernini sculpture while trying to walkthrough the merchandise that blocks the way."Racist, racist!" God forbid that a metro copshould walk up to him and dare to say, "Signorson of Allah, Your Excellence, would you mindmoving over a hairsbreadth to let people get by?" They’d eat him alive. They’d go after him withknives. At the very least, they’d insult hismother and progeny. "Racist, racist!" And peoplejust take it, resigned. They don’t react even ifyou yell what my old man used to yell duringfascism: "Don’t you care at all about dignity?Don’t you have even a little pride, you bigsheep?"

The same thing happens in other cities, I know.At Turin, for example. That Turin that createdItaly and now doesn’t even seem like an Italiancity. It seems like Algiers, Dacca, Nairobi,Damascus, Beirut. At Venice. That Venice wherethe pigeons of Piazza San Marco have been

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replaced by little rugs with "merchandise" andeven Othello would feel ill at ease. At Genoa.That Genoa where the marvellous palazzi thatRubens so admired have been seized by themand are now perishing like beautiful women whohave been raped. At Rome. That Rome where thecynicism of a politics of every falsehood andevery color courts them in the hope of obtainingtheir future votes, and where the Pope himselfprotects them. (Your Holiness, why in the nameof the One God don’t you take them into theVatican? Strictly on condition, of course, thatthey refrain from shitting on the Sistine Chapeland the paintings of Raphael.) And here’ssomething I really don’t understand. Instead ofsons of Allah, in Italy they call them "foreignlaborers." Or else "manual–labor–for–which–there–is–demand." And I don’t doubt that someof them work. The Italians have become suchlittle lords. They vacation in Seychelles, come toNew York to buy sheets at Bloomingdale’s.They’re ashamed to be laborers and farmers,and won’t be associated with the proletariat. Butthose of whom I speak, what kind of laborersare they? What work do they do? In what way dothey satisfy the demand for manual labor thatthe Italian ex–proletariat no longer supplies?Camping out in the city on the pretext of selling

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merchandise? Loitering and defacing ourmonuments? Praying five times a day? And thenthere’s something else I don’t understand. Ifthey’re really so poor, who’s giving them themoney for the voyage by ship or rubber dinghythat brings them to Italy? Who gives them theten million lira a head (at least ten million)necessary to buy the ticket? It’s not by anychance Osama Bin Laden looking to launch aconquest not only of souls, but of real estate?

Well, even if he’s not the one giving themmoney, the situation bothers me. Even if ourguests are absolutely innocent, even if there’sno one among them who wants to destroy theTower of Pisa or the Tower of Giotto, wants toput me in chador, wants to burn me at the stakeof a new Inquisition, their presence alarms me.It makes me uncomfortable. And whoever takesthis situation lightly or optimistically is wrong.And even more wrong is the person whocompares the wave of migration hitting Italyand Europe to that which spilled into America inthe second half of the 1800’s or rather at theend of the 1800’s and the beginning of the1900’s. Now I’ll tell you why.

Not long ago I happened to catch a phrase

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uttered by one of the thousand prime ministersthat have honored Italy with their presence overthese past few decades. "Well, my uncle was animmigrant too! I can remember him leaving forAmerica with his little cardboard suitcase." Orsomething along those lines. No, my friend. No.It’s not the same thing at all. And it’s not fortwo rather simple reasons.

The first is that the wave of migration toAmerica that took place in the latter half of the1800’s was not clandestine and was not carriedout by bullying on the part of those whoeffected it. It was the Americans themselveswho wanted it, urged it, and by a specific act ofCongress. "Come, come, we need you. If youcome, we’ll give you a nice piece of land." TheAmericans even made a movie about it. Thatone with Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman, andwhat struck me about it was the ending. Thescene with the poor souls running to plant alittle white flag on the piece of land they wantto claim as theirs, so that only the youngest andstrongest are able to make it. The rest wind upwith diddly squat and some of them die in theprocess. To my knowledge, there was never anyact of Parliament in Italy inviting or ratherurging our present guests to leave their

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countries. Come–come–we–really–need–you, if–you–come–we’ll–give–you–a–little–farm–in–Chianti. They came to us on their own initiative,with their accursed dinghies and in the teeth ofthe customs officers who tried to send themback. What occurred was not an immigration, itwas more of an invasion conducted under anemblem of secrecy. A secrecy that’s disturbingbecause it’s not meek and dolorous but arrogantand protected by the cynicism of politicians whoclose an eye or maybe even both. I’ll neverforget the way these stow–aways filled thepiazzas of Italy with assemblies last year toclamor for visas. Those distorted, savage faces.Those raised fists, threatening. Those balefulvoices that took me back to the Teheran ofKhomeini. I’ll never forget it because I feltoffended by their bullying in my home, andbecause I felt made fun of by the ministers whotold us: "We’d like to deport them but we don’tknow where they’re hiding." Bastards! Therewere thousands of them in those piazzas andthey sure as hell weren’t hiding. To deport themall they had to do was put them in line, please–right–this–way–sir, and escort them to a port orairport.

The second reason, my dear nephew of the

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uncle with the little cardboard suitcase, is oneeven a schoolboy could understand. It requiresonly two elements to expound. One: America isa continent. And in the latter half of the 1800’swhen the American Congress gave the greenlight to immigration, this continent waspractically unpopulated. Most of the populationwas massed in the eastern states, in other wordsthose on the side of the Atlantic, and there wereeven fewer people in the Midwest. Californiawas practically empty. Well, Italy isn’t acontinent. It’s a very small country, and farfrom unpopulated. Two: America is a veryyoung country. If you recall that the War ofIndependence took place at the end of the1700’s, you can deduce that it’s only twohundred years old and you understand why itscultural identity is not yet well defined. Italy, onthe other hand, is a very old country. Its historygoes back at least three thousand years. Itscultural identity is thus very precise—and let’snot beat around the bush: that identity has quitea bit to do with a religion called Christianreligion and a church called the CatholicChurch. People like me have a nice little saying:the–Catholic–church–has–nothing–to–do–with–me. But boy does it have to do with me. WhetherI like it or not, it has to do with me. And how

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could it not? I was born into a landscape ofchurches, convents, Christs, Madonnas, Saints.The first music I heard coming into the worldwas the music of church bells. Those bells ofSanta Maria del Fiore that were smothered bythe uncouth voice of the muezzin during theTent Age. And I grew up in that music, in thatlandscape. And it was through that music andthat landscape that I learned what architectureis, what sculpture is, what painting is, what artis. It was through that church (which I laterrejected) that I began to ask myself what isGood, what is Evil, and by God...

There: you see? I wrote "by God" again. With allmy secularism, all my atheism, I am so imbuedwith Catholic culture that it’s even part of myway of expressing myself. Oh God, my God,thank God, by God, sweet Jesus, good God,Mother Mary, here a Christ, there a Christ. Thesewords come so spontaneously to me that I don’teven realize I’m speaking or writing them. Andyou want me to lay it all out? Even if I’ve neverpardoned Catholicism for the infamies itinflicted on me for centuries, starting with theInquisition that burned even my grandmother—poor grandmother!—even if I’ve never gottenalong well with priests and have no use for their

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prayers, all the same I really love the music ofchurch bells. It caresses my heart. I also lovethose painted or sculpted Christs and Madonnasand Saints. In fact I have a thing for icons. I alsolove monasteries and convents. They give me asense of peace, and sometimes I envy thoseinside. And then let’s admit it: our cathedralsare more beautiful than mosques andsynagogues. Yes or no? They’re also morebeautiful than Protestant churches. Look, myfamily’s cemetery is Protestant. It accepts thedead of all religions but it’s Protestant. And oneof my great–grandmothers was Walensian. Oneof my great–aunts, Evangelist. I never knew myWalensian great–grandmother. But I did knowthe Evangelist great–aunt. When I was a little girlshe would always take me to her churchfunctions in Via de’ Benci at Florence, and...God,how bored I was! I felt so alone with thosefaithful who did nothing but sing psalms, thatpriest who wasn’t a priest and did nothing butread the Bible, that church that didn’t seem likea church and apart from a little pulpit hadnothing but a big crucifix. No angels, noMadonnas, no incense. I even missed the smellof incense, and would rather have been in thenearby Basilica di Santa Croce where they hadthese things. The things I was used to. And I’ll

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say more: in my country house, in Tuscany,there is a tiny little chapel. It’s always closed. Noone goes there since my mother died. But I gothere sometimes, to dust, to make sure the micehaven’t made a nest, and despite my secularupbringing I feel comfortable there. Despite mypriest–hating tendencies, I move there withcasual ease. And I believe that the vast majorityof Italians would confess the same thing. (EvenBerlinguer, the head of the Italian CommunistParty, confessed as much to me.)

Good God! (Here we go again.) I’m telling youthat we Italians are not in the same position asthe Americans: mosaic of ethnic and religiousgroups, hodgepodge of a thousand cultures, atonce open to every invasion and able to stave itoff. I’m telling you that, for the very reason thatour cultural identity is so precise and defined byso many centuries, it cannot sustain a wave ofimmigration composed of people who in oneway or another want to change our way of life.Our values. I’m telling you that we have no roomfor muezzins, for minarets, for false teetotalers,for their fucking Middle Ages, for their fuckingchador. And if we had room, I wouldn’t give itto them. Because it would be the equivalent ofthrowing away Dante Alighieri, Leonardo da

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Vinci, Michelangelo, Raphael, the Renaissance,the Risorgimento, the liberty that for better orworse we fought for and won, our Patria. Itwould mean giving them Italy. And I won’t givethem Italy.

I am Italian. The fools who think I’m anAmerican by now are wrong. I’ve never asked forAmerican citizenship. Years ago an Americanambassador offered it to me on Celebrity Status,and after thanking him I replied: "Sir, I’m verytied to America. I’m always arguing with it,always telling it off, but I’m still profoundly tiedto it. For me America is a lover—no, a husband—to whom I will always be faithful. Assuminghe doesn’t sleep around on me. I care about thishusband of mine. And I never forget that if hehadn’t troubled himself to wage war on Hitlerand Mussolini, today I’d speak German. I neverforget that if he hadn’t kept an eye on the SovietUnion, today I’d speak Russian. I care about himand I like him. I like for example that when Icome back to New York and hand over mypassport and green card, the customs agentgives me a big smile and says "Welcome home."The gesture seems so generous, so affectionate.I also remember that America has always beenthe Refugium Peccatorum for people without a

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homeland. But I already have a homeland, sir.Italy is my Patria, and Italy is my mamma. I loveItaly, sir. And it would seem like renouncing mymamma to take American citizenship." I alsotold him that my language is Italian, that I writein Italian, whereas I only translate myself inEnglish. Just as I translate myself in French,feeling it to be a foreign language. And then Itold him that when I listen to Mameli’s anthem Iget emotional. That when I hear that "Fratelli–d'Italia, l'Italia–s'è–desta, parapà–parapà–parapà", I get a lump in my throat. I don’t evennotice that as anthems go, it’s pretty ugly. I onlythink: that’s the anthem of my Patria. I also geta lump in my throat when I see the white redand green flag waving. Apart from the stadiumhooligans, that is.

I have a white red and green flag from the1800s. It’s full of stains, stains of blood, all pinkfrom mice. And despite the fact that it has thecoat of arms of the House of Savoy in the center(though without Cavour and without VictorEmmanuel II and without Garibaldi who bowedto that coat of arms we would never haveunified Italy), I hold onto it like gold. I treasureit as a jewel. Christ! We died for that flag!Hanged, shot, decapitated. Killed by the

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Austrians, by the Pope, by the Duke of Modena,by the Bourbons. We carried out theRisorgimento with that flag. And the unificationof Italy, and the war in Carso, and theResistance. My maternal great–great–grandfatherGiobatta fought for that flag at Curtatone andMontanara and was horribly disfigured by anAustrian rocket. My paternal uncles enduredevery kind of pain for that flag in the trenchesof Carso. My father was arrested and torturedfor that flag by the nazi–fascists at Villa Triste.My whole family fought for that flag in theResistance, and I did too. In the ranks of Justiceand Liberty, with the battle name Emilia. I wasfourteen. The next year when they dischargedme from the Volunteer Italian Army Corps ofLiberty, I felt so proud. Jesus and Mary, I hadbeen an Italian soldier! And when I found outthat along with the discharge went 14,450 lire, Ididn’t know whether to accept it or not. Itseemed wrong to accept it for doing my duty tothe Patria. Then I did accept it. None of us hadshoes at home. And with that money I boughtshoes for myself and my little sisters.

Obviously my homeland, my Italy, is not theItaly of today. The scheming, vulgar, fat–dumb–and–happy Italy of Italians whose only concern

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is getting their pensions by 50 and whose onlypassions are foreign vacations and soccermatches. The rotten, stupid, cowardly Italy, oflittle hyenas who would sell their daughter to aBeirut whorehouse in order to shake the hand ofa Hollywood divo or diva but if Osama BinLaden’s kamikazes reduce thousands of NewYorkers to a mountain of ashes that seem likeground coffee they snigger contentedly good–it–serves–America–right. The squalid, faint–hearted, soulless Italy, of presumptuous andincompetent political parties that don’t knowhow to win or lose but know how to glue the fatposteriors of their representatives into the seatof a deputy or minister or mayor. The still–Mussolinesque Italy of black and red fasciststhat make you think of Ennio Flaiano’s terriblejoke: "In Italy there are two kinds of fascists:fascists and anti–fascists." Nor is it the Italy ofthe magistrates and politicians who in theirignorance of proper verb tense commitmonstrous errors of syntax while pontificatingon television screens. (You don’t say, "If it was,"you animals! You say "If it were.") Nor is it theItaly of young people who, having similarteachers, are drowning in the most scandalousignorance, the most excruciating superficiality,drowning in emptiness. So that they add errors

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of spelling to errors of syntax and if you askthem who the Carbonari were, who the liberalswere, who Silvio Pellico was, who Mazzini was,who Massimo D’Azeglio was, who Cavour was,who Victor Emmanuel II was, they look at youwith dulled pupils and dangling tongues. Theyknow nothing or at most they know how to playthe comfortable role of aspiring terrorists in atime of peace and democracy, how to wave blackflags, hide their faces behind ski masks, thelittle fools. Inept fools.

And even less is it the Italy of the chatteringinsects who after reading this will hate me forhaving written the truth. Between one bowl ofspaghetti and another they’ll curse me and hopeI get killed by one of those whom they protect,that is by Osama Bin Laden. No, no: my Italy isan ideal Italy. It’s an Italy that I dreamed of as ayoung girl, when I was discharged from theItalian Volunteer Army Corps of Liberty, and Iwas full of illusions. An intelligent, dignified,courageous Italy, and therefore worthy ofrespect. And this Italy, an Italy that exists evenif it is silenced or ridiculed or insulted—woe toanyone who lays a finger on it. Woe to anyonewho robs it from me or invades it. Becausewhether the invaders are Napoleon’s French or

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Francis Joseph’s Austrians or Hitler’s Germansor Osama Bin Ladin’s comrades, it’s all the sameto me. Whether they invade it using cannons orrubber dinghies, ditto.

And with that I bid you an affectionate farewell,my dear Ferruccio, and I warn you: ask nothingfurther of me. Least of all, to get involved indisputes or pointless polemics. I’ve said what Ihad to say. Anger and pride ordered me to. Ageand a clean conscience allowed me to. But now Ihave to get back to work; I don’t want to bedisturbed. End of story.

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