The Rage and The Pride (La Rabbia e l'Orgoglio) by Oriana Fallaci
English | Italiano

Well, even if he's not the one giving them money, the situation bothers me. Even if our guests are absolutely innocent, even if there's no one among them who wants to destroy the Tower of Pisa or the Tower of Giotto, wants to put me in chador, wants to burn me at the stake of a new Inquisition, their presence alarms me. It makes me uncomfortable. And whoever takes this situation lightly or optimistically is wrong. And even more wrong is the person who compares the wave of migration hitting Italy and Europe to that which spilled into America in the second half of the 1800's or rather at the end of the 1800's and the beginning of the 1900's. Now I'll tell you why.

Not long ago I happened to catch a phrase uttered by one of the thousand prime ministers that have honored Italy with their presence over these past few decades. "Well, my uncle was an immigrant too! I can remember him leaving for America with his little cardboard suitcase." Or something along those lines. No, my friend. No. It's not the same thing at all. And it's not for two rather simple reasons.

The first is that the wave of migration to America that took place in the latter half of the 1800's was not clandestine and was not carried out by bullying on the part of those who effected it. It was the Americans themselves who wanted it, urged it, and by a specific act of Congress. "Come, come, we need you. If you come, we'll give you a nice piece of land." The Americans even made a movie about it. That one with Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman, and what struck me about it was the ending. The scene with the poor souls running to plant a little white flag on the piece of land they want to claim as theirs, so that only the youngest and strongest are able to make it. The rest wind up with diddly squat and some of them die in the process. To my knowledge, there was never any act of Parliament in Italy inviting or rather urging our present guests to leave their countries. Come–come–we–really–need–you, if–you–come–we'll–give–you–a–little–farm–in–Chianti. They came to us on their own initiative, with their accursed dinghies and in the teeth of the customs officers who tried to send them back. What occurred was not an immigration, it was more of an invasion conducted under an emblem of secrecy. A secrecy that's disturbing because it's not meek and dolorous but arrogant and protected by the cynicism of politicians who close an eye or maybe even both. I'll never forget the way these stow–aways filled the piazzas of Italy with assemblies last year to clamor for visas. Those distorted, savage faces. Those raised fists, threatening. Those baleful voices that took me back to the Teheran of Khomeini. I'll never forget it because I felt offended by their bullying in my home, and because I felt made fun of by the ministers who told us: "We'd like to deport them but we don't know where they're hiding." Bastards! There were thousands of them in those piazzas and they sure as hell weren't hiding. To deport them all they had to do was put them in line, please–right–this–way–sir, and escort them to a port or airport.

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