An Italian tragedy

Two young lovers from Verona, fighting against a world they do not comprehend, ruled by older men and women whose values have never been theirs, face their undeserved destiny. Although the product of Shakespeare's imagination, Romeo and Juliet represents the Italian tragedy par excellence. First of all, there is plenty of evidence that Romeo and Juliet were real people, whose families are mentioned in Dante's Purgatorio VI, or at least plausible incarnations of historical characters that lived in Northern Italy at the height of the XIII century wars between Guelfi and Ghibellini. Secondly, and most importantly, their families, the Montecchi and the Capuleti, represented the two sides of the same coin: a self-consuming political and cultural cancer that was willing to let its children die rather than question itself.

How sad that, after almost 8 centuries, nothing has changed nel Bel Paese. Time has published this week an important and for once spot-on report on the fading future of Italy's young. I could not have agreed more with its conclusion that the crux of the problem lies in an ageing population that is clinging on to power and privileges in all sectors of society and the economy, and that is not only stifling the country by extirpating every sapling of social change, but also ensuring Italy soon falls into the cracks of history. Like the Roman ruins of the Colosseum, soon the entire Italy will turn into an open-air museum, visited by rich foreigners with their kids on holiday, while what little remains of our youth is reduced to running a few hotels and restaurants serving clichéd menus and earning just about enough money to keep the old alive in their dilapidated homes.

It's easy to misunderstand Italy. It's a country that has mastered the art of dazzling visitors with the beauty of its landscape, the richness of its culture, the opulence of its art. Yet, beneath this glittering surface, lies a decomposing body. A blind cult of the past - typical of decadent cultures - is the only certainty to which everyone clings on, the last bastion against the rising waters of the future. The ageing contenders in the impending general elections - all but dressed like contemporary Montecchi and Capuleti - are locked in their sterile arguments, while jealously holding on to their privileges. There's no shame, no attempt to cover up this horrid farce. Because they truly represent the country. Because this is what our fathers, our uncles, our older brothers are like. Because you don't need to pretend when you are at a family dinner and the white priest is sitting at your side, whichever side of the table you choose to sit.

And what about us? We are left to die slowly, turning into a mockery of youth. Even hope has abandoned us. Our French cousins at least think they will stop the rising tide by taking to the streets. The irony of a generation that fights in the name immobility, not change. In Italy, on the other hand, no one believes any longer. Who can, like me and the waiters working in the restaurant beneath my flat, flees the country, and seeks refuge where there might still be a future. The rest stares at the approaching lights like a rabbit in the middle of a road. But unlike Romeo and Juliet, we'll have no one writing about how beautifully and tragically we fell. Because there will be nothing beautiful and tragic about our certain death. No matter how loud we scream, how hard we punch, how many times we pray, beg, threaten, their yellow eyes will stare back at us, empty. And they will put a gun against our temples, and finish us off like a beautiful racing horse with a broken leg.

Without even giving us a chance of falling first.