Si fa presto a dire “trent’anni” vissuti in un paese di stragi, e stragisti. In una nazione che ha lenìto, solo con funerali e giornalisti e sindacalisti, il dolore delle vittime. Col collega che ci ha lasciato sua figlia, sul primo binario, e dava di matto, all’epoca. Coi magistrati da soli, in prima linea. Si fa presto a dire trent’anni with a subtle fear that overcame you each time you take a train towards the Apennines, with the obsessive care to avoid the waiting room, and buying a newspaper to read, on the journey, not to think about it too. It's easy to say that work, thirty years, a company in which are forgotten in the copier with a copy of the manual to join the venerable Mason, and you see above and turn heads with confusion swirling Capetti, renovation of sites and functions, a logic that responds to everything except the welfare of the client, and work. Without an apparent logic, except that while the IRS collects us less, because the company is restructured without end. It's easy to say that young people today have no future. If you are studying abroad, or else to remain living with parents without work, while we we had. Yes, but what work? Alice saw fellow students continue their studies with scholarships given to children of professionals, who reported incomes lower than those of his parents and employees. No one knew thirty years ago? or was it a way, too, to encourage, as now, the children of certain social classes? It's easy to say thirty years, lived in a country where to find the house is impossible, if not to jeopardize their lives for decades, only to see that instead they make the houses, and eat the grass around it, every year hundreds of hectares, and are empty thousands already made, because no one wants to fix it. For thirty years. Alice had two parents, with whom he often had to run to the emergency room - they were old and sick - and every time we remained eight hours in a row, patient complaints and also surrounded by blood, as in third-world thriller, only to be told yes, the place was, but not in the specialist clinic, but in geriatrics or general medicine, where every time he saw kids graduating who did not know where to put their hands. And every time she had to instruct them, medical history, allergies, because the card each time the patient was thrown. Or the database was different from one hospital to the other, and nobody knew nulla dell’altro. Eppure era anche contenta, perché nel suo paese, molto spesso, andava anche peggio. Molto peggio. Per trent’anni Alice ha vissuto in un luogo dove hanno deciso che Privato era meglio che Pubblico, e invece di controllare gli appalti, come un privato farebbe per prima cosa, si son cominciati a contare i minuti che occorrono per fare la Tac, oppure l’eco, o anche le visite, perché bisognava produrre ricchezza. Anche nella salute occorre evitare gli sprechi, e la cura dei vecchi è uno spreco, rende poco, anzi, non rende. Nel paese di Alice ci vogliono mesi per ottenere una licenza, di qualsiasi genere, ma occorrono minuti per venir derubati sull’autobus, se solo non tieni in bocca la borsa. Ci vogliono weeks to get the medical records, but the exorbitant bills to pay now everywhere, and if they cut off two months later, a light gas and water. If you need to enroll your child in a school in a long time, six months before you sign up, but when he gets there, just a week to know that the money for toilet paper are not there, and they also have to pay immediately. If you decide to have a child, and if not born in normal times, you also have to pay to go abroad, to shell out millions because of Alice's life in the country is governed only at birth, not after. After you can go to war - by volunteers, of course, and unemployment that beats is a good ground for volunteers - and after you can expose them to uranium depleted, you can let them die on the streets on Saturday evening, you can let them die in a foundry, or on rooftops, even for drugs, ignorant, uneducated, and easy prey for drug dealers hungry, let them die like this ... in this country. Every so often we have a start, we look around and see them dazed, at the sides of the streets of major cities, holding a beer at ten o'clock in the morning, and we ask ourselves: Who am I? Alice, in her country, after thirty years, he feels discomfort: he strikes, the struggles involved, volunteer, he shouted, in hospital wards, he gritted his teeth, has long debt for its roof, fought thirty years to get a better quality. Ma sente fastidio, oggi sente fastidio. Farà la sua parte, ancora, e di nuovo, ma non riesce più ad ascoltare chi finora l’ha fatta vivere così. Le viene la rogna, a sentire certi paroloni: secessione, presidenzialismo, de-localizzazione, tangentopoli, piduisti, pidiellisti, falchi, padanie, appaltopoli, grilli di qua e valori di là, deflazioni, speculazioni, inflazioni, globalizzazioni, sub-prime e finanziarizzazione. Le viene la rogna, a sentire questi tiggì che parlano solo degli altri, di quelli che, eletti al governo, fanno finta, finta di tutto. Fanno finta che lei non esista: qui sta il punto vero. Nel suo paese è successo di tutto, in trent’anni. È mancata solo una cosa: la dignità of living, of building something in a reasonable time, meeting the needs decent answers, the lift in the morning without thinking: which casino-obstacle-problem-insult I have to overcome today?
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