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Rating: After the wall fell, the Soviet partition, the curtain frayed, and the tyrant was shot, Giorgio Gaber, within the realm of Teatro Canzone, composed, with a beautiful monologue, his political testament analyzing with lucidity, and melancholy, what at the time, still fresh was considered as "the thing". Where had Communism gone? If it ever existed, Communism had disappeared, put away hastily and with barely concealed coldness. Perhaps because too often it was confused, or rather, deliberately confused with "communism," a skillful grinder of dreams or utopias, as one might say. And the Communists, at least in Italy? Gone. Or rather camouflaged, scattered into a diaspora into first two parties, then a dozen small factions, even historically compromised with that hated cross shield which, after thirty years, made us realize the futility of eliminating the poor Aldo Moro. After the Bolognina, for a matter of convenience, the sickle and hammer were replaced by a rose, only to completely wither over time. And the former "communists" sit next to the former Christian Democrats.
Gaber, who was a Communist, recalls what Communism was, admitting, even with obedient and humble mea culpas and with his incomparable irony, what the former wanted to be and what "communism" has transformed into error. Or horror.
When one became communist for reasons of toponymics, for ancestral, genetic, or pathological reasons. For reasons of convenience or necessity, to munch on some stuffed pepper at popular festivals or to console oneself with a glass of exclusively free wine. The instruments begin gently in a slow crescendo. A few white keys pressed in accompaniment. Prolonged notes in the background embrace Giorgio's words, enunciated with a smile that will soon turn bitter.
When it was believed that Russia and China were advanced countries or heading towards progress, while not everyone knew that power would make men akin to ferocious beasts. When the "communists" would have promised freedom in the lands and equality among the peoples. Maintaining neither one nor the other. When there was Enrico Berlinguer who was truly a good person. A Communist. And the people applaud. Even when there's Giulio Andreotti who is not a good person. A collector of skeletons starting from Portella della Ginestra. And the Worst Socialist Party in Europe. And the people unite the applause with cries of approval.
When they talked in circles about that revolution that someone, a Communist, is still waiting for. Even when after moderation and resounding applause one returned home murmuring about impossible revolution because it suited no one. When workers broke their backs on assembly lines and were liquidated with starvation wages and layoffs. But also when union protectors promised revolutions that we are still waiting for. When man shouts his anger in the square and heals his pharyngitis in the room of buttons. When those who believed, proudly displayed the card of the Great Communist Party. Surely the strongest in Europe. But also when those who believed displayed it with the same pride despite the mistakes.
The instruments tune to the voice increasing in intensity. The drums begin to rain, giving depth to the words that start to flow angry. The truths emerge, and the tension rises. The people continue to applaud.
Gaber clenches his fists and sweats, panting. He launches the last possible attacks on that leadership steeped in bribes, mafia, and corruption. Still in office. The substantial and exasperated words pierce the thin veil of never-kept promises, demonstrating once again that the Communists are no more. And he recalls those black massacres, for political color and ferocity, against innocents and paid for by the CIA and OSS, just because the Great Communist Party was not supposed to win. When many families are still waiting for an answer and many others, unfortunately, will no longer be able to hear them if they arrive.
Someone was a communist because they dreamed of a freedom different from that imposed by tyrants, exploiters, and settled power. When it was believed that the Manifesto could enter people's minds to bring out the best in them. When we could have everything without too many demands and when we could have nothing without envying others. As Gaber says, one hoped for a different morality. There was a need for it. When the dream was not supposed to become an illusion and utopia, violence. Because one truly believed in it. Because despite everything, the hope of change was still there. Always. Wanting to soar like Gaber's sincere, moved seagull, which trembles at the end of the outburst and resumes breathing regularly. The instruments reach the peak and silence in a quick fade.
The seagull understands that despite everything, its wings are clipped. The hopes are dead because too many sins have been committed. The seagull lowers its head and dances. Death seizes it in a slow pirouette. A tear springs from the cold eye. A drop of pride.
Communists always.
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