The country of the dead

These are difficult days. It is neither the time or the place to explain to you why our country is in arguably the most difficult socio-economic situation since the end of WWII. [...]

From outside, we see the world and wish it was ours. Our generation is learning to hide from its inherited stereotypes. From amusing antics they have transfigured into monsters precluding any pride, or unity. Their long shadows from centuries of immigration thrash every step we make towards a collective conscience as a country. Italians in 2010 are a pack of toothless wolves, left behind and out in the grassland with no shade or cover. Avoiding to point fingers in any direction, it's useless to find the culpable or the runaway. We carry the heaviest burden, and if the world might have no future, Italy has no present. We live in an interminable parenthesis where the dead hold the strings to an invisible yoke. The dead have taken away any chance of redemption in our lifetime, and most of us know they'll never be able to live their lives on the shores of the peninsula as we live them abroad.

For a brief time in the summer of 2006, football brought back hope. And everyone can argue on its meaninglessness, but for a brief period it was a signal that we, the people who still believe in that land, could regain control and lift our heads. For the enlightened few who have to carry the burden and shame of a tyranny settling in, and that of a stifling recession crippling all chances of starting enterprise without nepotism, 2006 was pure distilled confidence.

But this year, the country of the dead has made sure to shut yet another crack of light. Conservatism poisons every aspect of Italian society, so why we expect it not to invade football? As funny as it may sound, our team is the mirror of our country. 9 out of 14 players are there because they were there four years ago, the rest are there because they follow orders exactly as they are told. Check out the names in the political party(ies) and you will find the same proportions. In a paradoxical inversion of the metaphor, the best footballers have been left home, while the mediocre represent all of us.

We live abroad. We are confronted with ridicule everyday. We have no chance of rebelling against this, because it would mean excluding ourselves from what is ours.

But I won't be playing the "un-patriotic" role that the country of the dead has drawn out for us. So forward Italy.

We are headed for sure disaster, and we will surely sink, but not with our eyes closed. We know what's happening yet we still choose to stand behind our flag.