Demonstrations for peace, in Rome Conte widens to the left. And Letta (disputed) moves away- Corriere.it

One admonishes, pontificates and allows himself to take selfies, that I miss the Salvini of the roaring years. The other resists as he can the howls, insults, embarrassment, until he comes out of the procession and perhaps a piece of his own history. There are moments like this, when two destinies cross: this Roman Saturday is a revolving door for Conte and Letta.

In twenty years, perhaps few will be interested in the fact that Putin’s war, in addition to upsetting the world, has even changed the fate of the Italian left, whether real or so-called. Yet, in the footnotes there will also be this demonstration for peace in Piazza San Giovanni, eighty or one hundred thousand in procession, 600 acronyms, very few yellow-blue flags of Ukraine, so much ancient red CGIL,
sprinkled with Power to the People, many banners of Sant’Egidio and Acli, many placards against NATO. And the two of them. Conte and Letta, “Giuseppi” and “Enrico-stare-sereno”. Distant but bound in an almost plastic changing of the guard. The autodafé of the Atlanticist Democratic Party with a shift towards the classic canon of Cattocomunist pacifism (now in neo-grillina sauce) everything is celebrated in two scenes.

At one o’clock in the afternoon the procession hasn’t moved yet, remake air blows, Berkeley in the Sixties, Strawberries and blood for us grayer on the drumming notes of Give Peace a Chance. Museum of the protest, average age 55. And yet, on the side of Piazza della Repubblica there is a kind of modernist vortex of mobile phones, cameras, microphones. And a lonely man in the middle, perhaps in command: the Volturara Appula lawyer with no more clutch bag, in an existentialist black crewneck, the Taverna and the Castellone as guardian angels, a banner “On the side of peace” in front. “As beautiful as the sun,” murmurs a five-star panther in an orderly row for the photo-op. Yes, there is the security service that keeps his people at bay, many ladies, “two meters behind, please, don’t push.” A people that is now pushing because it has expanded by quite a bit: the polls say it is almost unbelievable that it is connected to the Democratic Party. The glance certifies it. There are the partisans, so to speak. Gabriella Collaveri, Anpi of Livorno, sighs with an admirable political synthesis when asked whether Conte is on the left or not: «… ‘I know! But he is the only one who says something for the short ones like us ». And damn if he says: he has just warned Minister Crosetto not to “dare to send more weapons to Ukraine without going through Parliament.” So from behind, they press the cry of “Con-te, Con-te!”. The amateur who was supposed to celebrate the Five Star funeral took the hearts of these people with two easy and populist moves: first income, then peace.

The rest is the outline for the second revealing scene. After being a ghost for a couple of hours (“Will he come or not?”), Letta materializes in the middle of the procession, near via Merulana. Militants of the Democratic Party and pentastellati are at a distance of about a kilometer, with the Catholic buffer between them. The secretary should enter between the Acli and Sant’Egidio cordons. Everything has gone smoothly so far. The people of the procession also digested Fassino, who is certainly not an appeaser. A lady dressed in a rainbow approaches him: “Stop feeding this war.” He, a staunch defender of free and armed Ukraine, does not make a plissé and responds with an “okay”. There are Bonaccini and De Micheli (vaguely situationist: “I have too much respect for these people to talk about politics”). There are Nardella and Provenzano and no one is mad at it. Zingaretti, imagine, already a bridge to Giuseppi «a very strong point of reference for progressives», is almost an ircocervo by now.

With Letta it goes differently and we knew. The grumbling starts, the strong words, they give him the “warmonger”. Then he, ill advised, decides to cut to the sidewalk of via Merulana accelerating towards Piazza San Giovanni. They see it. Photographers, cameras and grillini chase him. Whistles. Howls. A surreal procession within the procession. He accelerates, puts on the mask perhaps to make himself less recognizable. Since he is a courteous man, out of breath he says that there is “no discomfort, I’m fine.” From the street they shout at him “go away”, “change course”. Him: “Where there is peace there is the Democratic Party.” It is a sad scene that ends only in front of the barriers of the square that belonged to Togliatti and Berlinguer and now sees the secretary dem sneak into cover while a boy with a CGIL flag on his shoulder yells at him “fascist”.

Confusion reigns in words and thoughts, the Roman Saturday is a fruit salad of good intentions, naive hopes and falsehoods. Angelo Moretti from Mean takes the point honestly: “We are many because the event is ambiguous, the knots have not been dissolved”. It is no coincidence that the first banner of the procession is for Assange, martyr or devil, points of view. There are school children (few actually) who sing the songs of their grandparents (very popular “Communists of the Capital”): convinced that the only way to get out is to disarm Zelensky, ignoring the history of Munich 1938. It’s the mood prevailing, whatever you think of what remains of the Lettian Democratic Party.

Giorgio Cremaschi, a trade unionist of yesteryear, goes hard: “If I see Enrico I tell him: make peace with yourself, you can’t ask for a ceasefire and send arms to Kiev.” While choruses from other times (“Outside Italy from NATO, outside NATO from Italy”) we understand that the next shipment of war material will not be a gala dinner. In the backstage, solons of hairy pacifism call for a truce “now that there is a stalemate between Russians and Ukrainians” omitting that without our weapons in Zelensky there would be now and then there will be no stalemate but only submission. Among pieces by De Gregori, eskimo and keffiyeh scattered, walking next to Mimmo De Masi, a lovable sociologist over eighty, is like marching with Che. They worship him. In San Giovanni, Conte and Landini shake hands. The CGIL secretary wants to “disarm the war”, the new owner of the square tells him “let’s not give up”. Letta is already away. They ask him: are you not speaking? He smiles only pursing his lips, shakes his head. Suddenly she got up north.