Writings | Treading On Kings

Most of what the world saw and knows about the G8 summit held in Genoa in July 2001 is that there was violence and that one demonstrator, a 23-year-old Italian boy named Carlo Giuliani, was shot and killed by an Italian carabiniere. But the equation “Genoa = violence” is deceptive. There were an estimated 250,000 to 300,000 demonstrators in Genoa, of whom, according to various estimates, between 500 to 5,000 were violent. Violence did, however, play a crucial part in the Genoa summit, as well as in the way in which the summit was perceived and how it will be remembered.

After the summit weekend, the Italian Ministry of the Interior issued what read almost like a war bulletin: 280 arrests and 231 wounded, of whom 121 were demonstrators, 94 were police, and 16 were journalists. Of the 280 arrested, 105 were foreigners. 150 of those arrested were released almost immediately, while 130, 78 of whom were foreigners, were held pending further investigation. However, protest groups maintain that the number of wounded demonstrators was much higher, and that published statistics represent only those who received hospitalization. They also consider the estimates of injuries among the police to be too high.

When the smoke cleared from the streets of Genoa, the net result of the violence was that large numbers of peaceful demonstrators were beaten by police, while a small contingent of genuinely violent demonstrators—in particular, the so-called Black Bloc (easily recognizable because they dress in black from head to toe and generally wear black ski masks)—were allowed to rampage through certain parts of the city, breaking windows, looting stores, setting cars on fire, and breaking bank machines. Whether by design or incompetence—or some combination of both—the violence produced a clear political effect: hundreds of thousands of peaceful protesters were physically intimidated by both the police and the Black Bloc, and yet at the same time were discredited in the eyes of worldwide public opinion, heavily influenced by television images of violent factions running wild through the streets.

The violence occurred in a very particular political context. The center-right coalition of Silvio Berlusconi, the Italian media tycoon-turned-politician, had recently assumed power, and the summit was seen as a “test” of the new government. In the weeks leading up to the summit, a member of the new government coalition, the “post-fascist” party Alleanza Nazionale (National Alliance), anxious to solidify its place as the party of law and order, made it clear that it intended to play a major role in Genoa. Alleanza Nazionale announced it was sending a delegation of parliamentarians to Genoa as an act of solidarity with police. And Deputy Prime Minister Gianfranco Fini—the head of Alleanza Nazionale (known for his statement that Mussolini was the greatest statesman of the 20th century)—was in the command room of the carabinieri(Italy’s military police) during the weekend of the demonstration, a highly unusual political presence in what was supposed to be a purely professional context. It is difficult not to see a connection between this political presence and some of the excesses and abuses that occurred in Genoa: a number of the demonstrators who were arrested—as well as suffering severe beatings at the hands of the police—were forced to sing the fascist song Faccetta Nera, and chant Viva il Duce! and Viva Pinochet!

My friends and I arrive at the Diaz school on Saturday, just before midnight. Both joyful and dramatic images of the last two days are still vivid in my mind. I haven't eaten all day, but decline an invitation to get pizza on the corner. I feel overwhelmed and need to rest. We spread our blankets in the gymnasium, just past the main entrance. Twenty or so people are scattered on the wooden floor, some already sleeping, others softly talking to each other. Before falling asleep I call my husband in the United States. I need to tell him that I have found a safe place to spend the night, across the street from the media center. Our conversation is broken by loud shouts coming from the entrance of the school. Someone in the gym yells “Polizei! Polizei!” I tell my husband that something is happening outside and that I will call him later. People inside the school begin to run frantically. Some start to barricade the main door with desks and chairs. Suddenly, batons break through the windows from outside, while something insistently pounds on the door. It must be large—maybe a car. Hysterical screams echo throughout the school. I am paralyzed by confusion and fear. I turn to the windows behind me and see that they have metal bars. I locate my friend in one of the corners of the room. I go to her and we hold each other, unable to speak. Others join us in the corner. Our bodies tremble, out of control. This is impossible, I think, this can't be happening to us. The door is smashed in and an endless line of policemen start entering the school. Their faces are hidden behind red bandannas, their bodies protected by blue Robocop-like uniforms, their hands firmly holding the batons. They are a wild pack of dogs. They run toward us, unleashed, and start violently beating inert people who embrace each other in a desperate hope of escaping what is to come. They run toward those who, with their arms raised in gestures of peace and submission, are hoping to reason with madness. Before my eyes, there is a massacre occurring, and nothing can be done. Soon, blood is everywhere: heads, arms, legs, the walls, the floor. When will it end? Are we going to die? My silent questions are soon answered. A young policeman, whose hair is covered with sweat, still panting from his efforts, screams, “We finally got you bastards! No one knows we are here, and we are going to kill you all!” I believe him. How will they ever justify such a massacre? They have to kill us now. The thought that there must have been a coup d’état briefly brushes my mind, followed by fear, anger, pity, and contempt. My stream of confused thoughts is interrupted by the crying voice of a young Italian woman. She is carried down from upstairs. Her head is broken, red. Her hands are stained with blood. She implores a policeman to help her. Her friend, she says, lost consciousness and was left upstairs. I am unaware of an upstairs, of more people. In a short while, they are all brought down, and thrown against the rest of us on the floor. We are many, a hundred maybe. The young man on my right has a broken arm. It is almost unrecognizable from the swelling. The older woman on my left has a broken arm as well. She must be fifty. In front of me, a young German girl, her mouth bleeding, is missing her front teeth and she cannot move her jaw. There are moans resonating throughout the hall. “Ambulanza,” some plead, in broken Italian. Almost all of them are foreigners. I realize that I am one of the very few who has not been beaten. I feel awkwardly lucky, and overwhelmingly impotent, ashamed, and angry. Policemen taunt us, laugh at our misery. I feel annihilated within. I can't see the end of this, and I am filled with despair.

Two men in elegant gray suits—the heads of the police, it seems—enter the school. They glance around the scene with initial looks of disconcertment, but then give somber nods to their inferiors. They give the order to have our documents collected and to seize our belongings. They look at us with menacing expressions, and then leave, satisfied, finally allowing in the medical crew that has been waiting outside. The paramedics are unprepared for this scene. They wear expressions of shock mixed with despair, while they try to assess whom to rescue first among the mass of bloody human bodies. They start with those who are unconscious.

Our names are called and groups are divided between the seriously injured and the less injured, which includes men and women with severely bruised limbs, swollen eyes ringed blue, and deep cuts on their faces. Couples are separated. People are helplessly crying. We are ordered to be silent, to obey everything we are told. We are lined up and brought outside. Bright lights are pointed at us. They are coming from photographers and cameramen. Behind them is a large crowd—hundreds of people are in the street, shouting to the police, “Assassini! Assassini!” I am deeply moved by the display of solidarity, and relieved that there are witnesses to the raid.