is because even the blood to flow back into the veins faster, furious, every time affects the repression, violence, is because in our hearts we retain high idea of \u200b\u200bjustice, because it is repugnant to the political calculations, the stirring, the opportunism of those who trust in variously disguised short memories and smoky vagueness of the concepts to make all gray cats, and for all which enables us to reproduce this text by Alfredo Bonanno. About a comrade killed, about memory, about anarchy.
For us, not all cats are gray.
Editions Anarchism
www.edizionianarchismo.net
I know who killed the commissioner Luigi Calabresi, May 17, 1972, under his house in Via Cherubini 6, Milan, at a quarter past nine in the morning.
The claim is serious, not for legal implications, for charity, of which I do not care the slightest, but for very different reasons, and it is these reasons that I put aside my attentive readers.
After all, if we reflect a little, what can we be sure? In the morning we wake up, we put our feet out of bed, have breakfast in a hurry, we fly to school, work, find the nearest gardens for friends, in short, each to their daily chores. In the evening, returning to lay the sheet on his back, almost always the same the night before, what we can be certain of all the facts that we saw before our eyes during slide the whole day? As soon as an event pointed out, however simple, that we made the coffee morning at the bar, that's the whole outline becomes confused, tends to blur in detail, every aspect and disappears in an unfulfilled desire for accuracy.
Ultimately, we have a memory of what has happened to us, what we did, but our statements about the specific events, are so inadequate as to make us conclude that we can be certain of anything.
But how can anyone say?
The answer is simple. We are confident, and always within the limits at times substantial and serious, but only about what really interests us, of what is so closer to our own feelings, needs, desires, dreams, projects, to be punched in the stomach. We remember only their fists in the stomach.
As such, life holds for us many punches in the stomach, and maybe it's better that way.
Think what it would be a life lived constantly on the verge of emotional tension, almost to bursting overwhelmed by adrenaline. A little quiet, please.
But since we are not beasts of burden, but men and women eager to live this life, here we look selectively. We filter the events that happen around us, not just those that we see directly with our eyes, but also that large implants of modern newspapers and television enable us to grasp, made thousands of miles away, far away in space and yet so close as if they occur in our own backyards.
We have become accustomed to these facts, but there are some who are in such a way that hurt us deeply.
What does this mean to be affected, too deep? It means that we remain open-mouthed, while a feeling of pain, anxiety, anger, disgust, or, what does the same in terms of biological mechanisms that are unleashed in our body, joy, enthusiasm, intoxicated, etc..
These events come into us and you set the seal in our confidence.
I know that there is no certainty, if it is viewed in terms of objective certainty valid for all, if one wants to check with the sling of the pharmacist, but when the blood boils in our veins for the fifteen dead mangled inside the central hall of the Agriculture Bank in Piazza Fontana in Milan, a hundred years, we would feel the same some unworthy of a fact, that only miserable servants of the state could do.
is the kind of certainty that I want to talk.
Whenever I think of Pinelli thrown from the window of room in the courtyard of the police in Calabresi Via Fatebenefratelli hospital in Milan, My blood boils in my veins.
So I am sure of that as well. Mille legulei organized together to explain the reasons for the poor commissioner stunned by the powerful blow of kidneys Pinelli hovering in the night to go to Milan, can not convince me. I do not even need to read the testimonies of comrades in the other rooms that get heated heard the interrogation, and the curses that preceded and followed the killing of Pinelli. Do not add anything to my confidence, these testimonies.
Similarly do not detract from the staggered to the courts, or statements branches of young men grew up in the shadow of his father's fault, or memories sweaty a widow for whom I have never felt compassion.
A man decided, confident, even caricatured in a film, but control of the situation. He was the spearhead of the Milan police station when the bombs explode, he had to get busy in the wake of the events, perhaps older than him, but certainly not capable of diverting the heart to a motion of fairness, first of all to himself. But that may be able to correct a cop, and, moreover, a cop who wants to get ahead at any cost?
No one speaks more of this person in a concrete way, they can not seem to be a myth, it seems at least one ghost. The past years have watered down the character, death seems to have flattened features a martyr iconography from the state.
Poor Calabresi, thirty-four, a flower of a gentleman, with his pregnant wife and two children. An apartment on the third floor of No. 6 Via Cherubini, a modest home. After his death, his wife had to wait almost a year for 156,000 lire per month pension. How sad. But the poor
Calabresi viewed life from a different perspective. He wanted to be a winner, play hard, and was able to build around himself a reputation as hard to beat. Everywhere arrived first, crushing all the competition, his team hated him, his superiors feared him. Karate man and worship of force, was so hypocritical with all by themselves out to a sentimentalist, a practicing Catholic, for a God-fearing, after all, this teaching had learned in America, where he had been working with the CIA . Experience at the time made by a few super Italian policemen.
In those feverish days after the massacre in Milan were all afraid of everyone. The sign of terror began for the first time, seriously, to penetrate the air and provincial simpleton of our country. The industrial city par excellence, after all, had never experienced a time like that was going to live. And people almost feel it in my skin this tragic speech again that was about to open.
Pinelli Why? Why do not you know, we'll never know. He could tap to another partner. The test of throwing someone down by the same studio window of Calabresi had been made months earlier with Braschi, he could be bouncing off ledges to fall. He has gone well. The context of the attacks on the Trade Fair was not equal to that of Piazza Fontana.
patch together the best view of the track was up to his anarchist, he was the specialist of Milan's anarchists, and others who had dealings with fellow Milan. Who better than he could pick up the threads of the discussion already started by Ventura, with the publication of anarchist texts made by a publishing house openly fascist and funded by the Ministry?
Ultimately, the choice of the anarchists had already been going on for months, the rehearsal was done with the bombing of the trade fair. Many comrades in jail at that time. And around there, well to turn things well, the poor Calabresi, with his freshly ironed clothes, his polite attitude and hard, its culture (so to speak, but still managed to take something on loan here and there ), its speed in taking decisions.
speed decisions. A man who had worked for the CIA could not have the speed of the CIA men, ruthless and cold running of their work. Only time much closer to us have removed these stereotypes, showing how the Secret Service, the CIA MI5, the notorious Mossad, are nothing more than gangs of killers and guaranteed immunity from the state, often a bunch of incapable and inexperienced, with means that at some point make them bigger and stronger than they really are.
Here, the commissioner Luigi Calabresi was one of these killers and guaranteed. Around him was created the myth dell'imbattibilità, force decisions that breaks down all barriers in front of him.
A first crack this myth had been at the trial of "Fight Continues, "where Calabresi had appeared in difficulty. He was accused of exactly what we are saying here, you have killed, or at least participated in the killing of Pinelli. The faltering response are still in the memory of so many comrades.
The May 17 was an unlucky day for the great commissioner. Everything seemed to go as always, the usual morning routine: breakfast, farewell to his pregnant wife, two sons, one by one to two years and eleven months, that familiar scene.
The Executioner has a family. It does not seem possible, but it is. And the family sees the work of the Executioner Executioner like that of any State official, in addition to a certain level, Executioner requires the work of specializations that not everyone can perform. Behind the mask that hides the Executioner is no place for the prolific wife and numerous offspring.
inauspicious day, about nine o'clock in the morning, the commissioner Luigi Calabresi takes to the streets. There it awaits its fate, exactly at nine o'clock and fifteen minutes, as two bullets, one before and one after.
report: discontinuous cranial meningo-cerebral gunshot bullet (right occipital region). The ambulance of
Crocebianca Vialba screams of its urgency in the streets of the metropolis. At nine thirty-seven minutes, the commissioner Luigi Calabresi died at St. Carlo.
An autopsy on the corpse of Pinelli was performed by Professors Louis, and Mangigli Falze. Who are they? I do not know. Tagliaossa of any? I do not think, at least one of them was a man of the Services, as he appeared in a footnote to published in the newspapers years later.
Why this presence? Why, once again did not feel confident that everything was done properly (too many people in the room Calabresi?), And wanted to close as soon as possible, killing in a hurry what was left of our comrade.
One thing is certain, that if the work of Calabresi was a gruesome mess (which suddenly turned Pinelli led to three feet shoes), that of dissecting was done to perfection. After that, no counter-was possible.
Calabresi, after exiting the front door, goes to the buoy in the middle of the street where his wife was parked in the sixteenth century. On either side of a primrose and an Opel. The first blow catches him in the right shoulder, falls, blows up the second part of the skull. The space between the sixteenth el'Opel gradually fills with blood.
people this is not immediately rushes, almost did not notice the gunshot. Spring in the air seemed to crackle of an old car. Then someone sees the body face down, the blood continues to expand his purple patch. You call the police, the police, ambulance, practically everything that usually happens in these cases, it happens, like an old script abused. Only this time also flock to the upper reaches of the Milan police. Help her eyes full of tears. The old prison guard fascists, experienced so many crimes and so much torture, is moved to see the body of the faithful contributor to the ground, lying in his blood.
The funeral of Commissioner window is gorgeous, lots of wreaths. The corpse is taken to church. The auxiliary bishop of Milan celebrated the funeral: "shining example of dedication to duty." It's amazing how this People do not have the slightest sense of shame.
Cardinal Colombo, referring to a statement by Mrs Gemma Calabresi, said: "The most beautiful flower that blossomed on the blood of the slain inspector is forgiveness of the widow." Stuff you would not believe.
Forgiveness. That magic word. It was not until the years to hear it repeated again, from other people, in other contexts, but only as the death of Calabresi.
But first things first.
someone of that morning in May, after so many years, seems to remember something. What a beautiful and wonderful mechanism is memory. The memory of repentance, then, deserves a separate study. At that Mass is a guy who sells crepes, pancakes, which has a kiosk, perhaps even sell Coke and orange, I do not know, however, has the air of an honest shopkeeper pulling a living. But under his good-natured look hides a dangerous criminal.
In addition, this dangerous criminal speaks, tells stories, tells of what he did that on the morning of May 17, 1972 in Via Cherubini, when on board a car waiting, waiting, waiting.
But those who waited?
Our friend is a name, then makes two more, giving them the masterminds in the killing of Calabresi.
He was only the assistant, the driver of the author material the fact.
But come on, sorry my dear friend, the police may have only one disk and that all those who accept money for four to wear the coat of the infamous do play the same old thing?
Here, there is a fact that judges do not know, that the same can not regret, that nobody knows, and the fact that I know who killed the commissioner Luigi Calabresi, May 17, 1972, in his home in Via Cherubini 6, Milan, at a quarter past nine in the morning. This cuts off the head of the bull, definitely. The large face of repentance is just playing a bad script.
But, not get ahead of the times.
waiting for the Commissioner Via Cherubini, was revenge. An absolute silence
received December 20, 1969 leaving the morgue, the body of Pinelli. It was 15 and one quarter. It began to rain.
Preneste via direct us to.
wife Licia had issued a statement: "I wish very much that the funeral of Pino Pinelli, although open to all friends who want to participate, take place in an openly private, without the participation of organized groups, delegations or symbols."
do not know why she had to make this statement, not for the reasons for which alone, in my heart, I had come to the same conclusion: symbols, banners groups, perhaps the same flags in the wind, would be out of place.
One black flag should have been present in the end it turned out that the flags there were more than necessary.
A wreath of flowers with a small inscription: "Anarchists do not forget you all."
I wondered if we would not have forgotten Pinelli, or what had been done. The doubt remained until Cemetery.
Fossa 434, field 76.
Here I had no doubts. And, with me, the thousand comrades present had no more doubts.
Calabresi had to be killed.
Addio Lugano beautiful. Revenge is
a question of dignity. The enormity of the fact must not only be commensurate Pinelli's death, and perhaps even the same massacre of fifteen dead and ninety wounded. This would be a mere legal algebra, perhaps just slightly more than providing proper codes. And in this sense, I do not care.
Revenge is an excess of itself, not realizing in the attack. So, seeing the relationship in the opposite direction, the killing of Calabresi, this has not been commensurate with a vengeance, commensurate to the dead in Fountain Square or the death of Pinelli. Even seeing things in this way falls in algebra legal first.
Revenge is therefore an excess.
not eye for eye, tooth for tooth, that's already in the biblical wording was a rationalization of previous vindictive behavior unpredictable, so an actual code, but it seemed to most people, wrongly, a just revenge.
The excess which is contained in revenge sweeps the field of any equivalence ratio of any commensurate. It is not revenge if you do not overflow the immense, the cancellation of the barbarous enemy, in his elimination, or at least a cause damage to the extent that make it impossible to forget.
If revenge was proportionate, it would be the social system in its together with impormela and here I am enclosed in a code, albeit unwritten, but always in a code. The environment would oblige me to take revenge, following the rules, because otherwise I would look bad and if I'm not bad considering if I avenge avenge or in excess, resulting in harmful consequences for the environment itself.
other hand, if the urge to revenge my dignity is offended, it is only one way that I am responsible, and with it, then the injured party with myself, with my conscience, I have to do the math. And with myself there are no half measures, I myself is an indivisible whole, I am the world, the whole world, and those who cause offense to remove my dignity around the world, destroys me as a consciousness of the world by myself, and deserves to be removed from the world.
Sure, there are few to grasp the profound sense of dignity. This is the mystery of certain behaviors that seem inexplicable. Nietzsche feels offended in their dignity as a man of the spectacle of a driver lashing his horse and unable to stand before the world was killed by his unfeeling brute, decides to cancel it that world, to erase his own world, to cancel the madness. For the same reason, other classmates, in front of their dignity offended obliterate the world differently, they cancel in suicide.
This way of looking at life grows and eventually becomes essential, as we realize the absurdity of the formal rules which provide so-called society, not to mention the laws that lay down the conditions for the existence of the state. Laws and behaviors that appear in the long run not only tools of the enemy and make it impossible to stifle the little freedom that even in a company managed and controlled, you can rip, but in themselves, as true deformities, aberrant behavior even when they appear intent by best of good will.
The critique of everyday life produces a consciousness that time is becoming more acute and sensitive, always more alacrity to find additional land of desolation and isolation. All around the fall so the clichés of democratic possibility, the illusions of politics, the positivity of the historical movement, the institutional concessions, the sterility of certain awards. This land is burned, and then must decide. If your conscience is able to penetrate into reality, where he discovers the plot that makes up the fabric of social relations, the texture fine and almost impalpable which is often covered with colorful appetizing offer you as the misery of the domain, if get to make this clear night with no time, then you feel offended, deeply offended.
and offense thousands of years of slavery and incarceration, the millennia of suffering and genocide, thousands of years of subjugation to a few groups dominate. Nothing that has been our past deserves to be saved, nothing was given to me, and nothing I could rip the enemy, if not capable of having a competitive grant direct access to me at the banquet, although for some crumb, for some recognition of the status of marginal for some strip on the cap for some sly bow by imbeciles who think themselves clever.
And you can even think for years about these issues, read and think, until you feel tired and sad, and there is no pages, no word, no act of man or woman close to you to tell you something clear, absolutely clear. You can paddle in the dark for years like the galley slaves of old, up to the extreme, until you fall dead on the oar without others noticing.
Instead, it may happen that made you shine for a moment the end of the street, which made a horrible face you see a watermark as it truly is the enemy, what stuff they put in the oven, from which exit is hellish crucible his soul. If such an event happens, if you're there too, along with many others like you, who know they are experiencing the same traumatic experience, and you see them, Omonia with big hands calloused, kids who try to give an attitude, mature women who run with the thought the war years, children massacred, young girls who see their love, who experience it as a sign of purity in the world, almost soiled by such arrogance, and they See, all with tears in his eyes, powerless but with tense muscles, if such an event happens to you inside, is no longer any occurrence, a fact as the other (in millions of people die brutally killed and more are being conducted at the cemetery or less quickly), but that fact has a different charge, carries a voltage that gives you pause, you awake at night sweating and sitting on the bed, you wonder what you're doing in your bed, And if you're not the dead turn in their graves, and to be alive, alive and well, it's Pinelli, with its naive beard railway worker.
I realize that all this may seem a list of sensations felt by a brain exalted, by me, I must confess, that night at the Cemetery, grave 434, field 76, I started crying uncontrollably. So be it, put it this way, it is affected by memories of the emotional state of the moment, these emotional states and often exalted, not being able to deliver instantly into something done (to punch a policeman, for example), resulting in a frustration that makes tears. It is, I agree.
But this reasoning is lost something important, reducing everything to a sum of individuals living individual states of mind, you put aside the essential thing, that strength is exceptionally important that out of many people experiencing the same emotional feelings prompted by feelings are very similar (no identity, for heaven's sake, I know), are attracted to each other to form a single entity that has no need of contracts or written contracts or to constitute such. Suddenly, this collective strength is apparent and it is there, tangible, I can touch it, I can hear his voice, I can take leave from its suggestions, direct gaze, where she says to look to see with his eyes made a thousand eyes what my poor myopic eyes do not see, remember what my poor mind alone can not remember.
Suddenly, as the head of Zeus, armed at all points, out the idea of \u200b\u200bjustice. But it is a strange idea, because it does not rely on any terms, any preferential order. It is an idea that wants to put things in their place, to exchange the corpse with that of Pinel Calabresi, are not substitutes. It is not an idea they want the revolutionary action, generally considered a continuation of legitimacy: that trust can be exploited in the revolutionary that you do not react to throw out the window like a box of old stuff. No, not even that. It is an idea that wants to be known, echoed by the people, so much so that there will be no political talk or claims by individual organizations of any kind, and say that about that time there were different structures arising . It is an idea that rises higher than the other for calling troubled by the conduct outside the rules, by the misdeeds of a commissioner Calabresi, after all is not normal for a stop at the police station, during an interrogation, is thrown out the window.
If this world is based on justice commensurate, the numerical calculations of a give and take, a punishment for the wrong done and to do an injustice to the pain suffered, it is a world that has nothing to do with the idea of \u200b\u200bjustice come out collectively at that moment that night in Milan Cemetery. So here that night, without anyone liked it or know it, is coming off an idea of \u200b\u200bjustice that was not there before, an idea that goes beyond ridiculous and makes the individual desire, the fantasy of a single shot in the mouth good commissioner Calabresi, desire and fantasy certainly cultivated by almost all of these, but like all desires and all fantasies, soon after, with the return to life daily, vanished into thin air.
But this idea of \u200b\u200bjustice (which could be called "proletarian" if, as has been rightly pointed out, this term had not rained the dust of millennia to make it unusable), not knowing how to call we will continue to call it that, just, justice, the idea of \u200b\u200bJustice continued its journey in all of us, has kept us all united together, comrades who I have never been close, who were present that night there, then I saw a few times elsewhere, another matter entirely busy, they and I, friends for whom, let's be clear, I have very little respect, if not aversion and contempt, well, for the simple fact that they too were there that night, whenever the voice distant but vivid justice calls me, putting your heart in turmoil, even those comrades return to feeling close.
's why I know who killed the commissioner Luigi Calabresi, May 17, 1972, under his house in Via Cherubini 6, Milan, at a quarter past nine in the morning.
those thousand and more, comrades present at the pit 434, field 76, the Cemetery of Milan, we all pulled the trigger.
No forgiveness. No mercy.
Addio Lugano beautiful.
Catania, July 12, 1998 Alfredo M.
Bonanno
[For I know who killed the commissioner Luigi Calabresi, Anarchism, Trieste 2007]
