One year, two months and 24 days.
This is the time that has passed since my arrival here, in the Piacenza jail; time filled with emptiness, time wasted trying to tame all of your senses, experimenting with a self-discipline that transforms, like an alchemy, the waste of a life into a formative experience. I have never looked for conflict, even if everyday life here is a constant series of occasions for conflict; when I set my reasons against this system of neutralizing the individual, I tried to do it with “civility,” with forced respect for roles, trying to appropriate them, at least as weapons, these illogical dynamics of which the guards make their banners: rules, rights, duties, protocols. And I’m certainly not saying it to brag about it, on the contrary; nevertheless, in jail, human experience is so distant from any form of good sense, common sense or just plain sense, that we must play, even if we know very well that the dice are rigged.
Despite this, by the sole affirmation and preservation of my dignity, the creation of a relationship of hostility with certain officers and leaders of this prison was inevitable; unsurprisingly and effortlessly, by the very roles that have been assigned to us by nature and the places that have been assigned to us by life and personal choices. The zeal of certain guards who are particularly skilled in their roles, warmly supported by the prison commander, has therefore ensured that the contents of my private mail have never been private, in defiance of what the penal code says, even after the end of the first postal censorship measure, in December 2019. Their annoyance was provoked in particular by drawings and circled A’s (which demonstrates the depth of analysis that still characterizes their work), not to mention the demonstrations of explicit solidarity. “Prison order and security” (the motivation behind foreclosures) must be very fragile and weak, if a postcard or a photo of a tag on a wall can endanger them. It should therefore have been at the suggestion of the prison of Piacenza, if it was not following their explicit request (I cannot know it), that on September 16, 2020 I was informed that the investigating judge has signed a second postal censorship measure, lasting six months. I made the choice to call myself through my lawyer, and, once again, to make good heart against bad luck, and to wait patiently for them to fix a date for the recourse, and tutti quanti.
But, in the meantime, my jailers seem to have lost the urge to do their job; suddenly, the employees of the commander’s office, who take care of my mail, come and deliver it to me once a week or even more rarely. Outgoing mail does not go out, incoming mail piles up on their desks. Perfectly in line with the spirit of careless officials with which they administer the whole prison, and to confirm once again (if there was any need) the punitive and retaliatory nature of this measure, given that they are not even interested in what I write / receive.
It would take a lot more to get me to bow, but it’s particularly irritating that, in the dismissal that is theoretically supposed to teach us to respect the law by force, their codes count for nothing. And in my opinion it is a mistake to keep silent about the ignorant arbitrariness with which they do their dirty work.
For this reason, and given that the circumstances do not suggest a change of course, I have decided that from Saturday October 24, I will start a hunger strike, which will last as long as I see fit. This is a personal battle, which may not help, which perhaps shows a lack of imagination on my part, but which I feel is necessary. Those who want, in the meantime, to continue to encumber the commander’s office with more or less futile communications, can write to me: they are welcome. Don’t say that the guards don’t deserve their blood-soaked wages.
I miss you all.
Salud y anarquìa,
To write to her (she reads and writes French):
C.C. San Lazzaro
Strada delle Novate, 65
29122 - Piacenza (Italy)