I received from my colleague Saverio Paffumi of Freelance 2.0 a letter sent by freelance journalist Gabriele Del Grande to the President of the Republic, Giorgio Napolitano. In the letter, the journalist explains that he chose not to attend the prize-giving ceremony for the winners of the prestigious “Saint-Vincent Journalism Prize” for reasons that, in my opinion, are absolutely reasonable.
Here is the full text:
Enrico Mentana for television, Antonio Padellaro for print media, and – attention! – Bruno Vespa for “the prestige of the profession”. These are the winners of the Saint-Vincent Journalism Prize, a social event for the journalist caste who today, January 21, celebrate themselves gathered in grand style before the President of the Republic, Giorgio Napolitano, in the frescoed halls of the Quirinale Palace. My name was on the guest list, as last year’s winner of the “Golden Dove” journalism prize. I thought about it until the last minute. In the end, I decided to boycott the ceremony. And to send this letter to Napolitano.
Excuse me, President, but this morning my seat will remain empty. It seems to me the best way to celebrate National Press Day: by being elsewhere. There are many reasons. First of all, I don’t consider it an honor to applaud an outdated page like Bruno Vespa, who for thirty years has occupied the public airwaves at our heavy expense with his trivial talk shows. Nor do I think it’s an honor to listen to the words of the National Federation of the Italian Press about the state of journalism in this country. The sound of hypocrisy hurts my ears. Especially when I think of all those national newspapers that don’t pay for work, and all those colleagues—much more talented than the fossilized figures being awarded today—who switched professions because you can’t pay rent or a mortgage with the glory of getting your byline for free in a national paper.
Finally, I don’t consider it an honor to shake the hand of a man incapable of pushing certain issues, if necessary even to the point of institutional confrontation. Because it’s pointless to celebrate press freedom in salons, when we all know the reality of conflicts of interest in our country—on the right with Berlusconi’s assets, on the left with chronic dependence on public funding and various nepotisms, in the center with the bishops’ vetoes, and last but not least Rai, with the long arms of all parties who have always divvied it up among themselves.
And to tell the truth, in this little Italy it doesn’t even seem an honor anymore to receive awards. Honestly, I’d rather have a job offer than a trophy. In June 2010 I was awarded four journalism prizes. And I found it difficult to accept them, simply because it’s hard to explain to the 250,000 readers of my Fortress Europe blog that in Italy, even the unemployed are honored. That in Italy, someone who receives three national and one international awards for his investigations, whose books are translated into Spanish and German, survives by selling Tuareg necklaces under the table, haggled in desert oases, and travels across Italy with suitcases full of books to sell during presentations to cover the expenses of his reporting.
It’s a bitter thing to travel the world presenting my books, from Morocco to Germany, from Spain to Turkey, from Belgium to Greece, and have to present myself as unemployed. Because no newspaper in Italy is willing to invest in investigative journalism, and the best offer you get is to curate a page for free on a website. Or you have to fight every time to get paid half the union minimum, and you have to be careful they don’t republish your photos without telling you and without paying. It’s bitter to think that perhaps at thirty the best choice is to retire to the countryside and tend a vegetable garden.
Maybe it’s because I learned the trade in the field and not on the benches of journalism schools, but to me it seems that the meaning of this profession is found elsewhere. It’s not in the Roman salons. It’s rather on the street, in the dusty shoes of those who still pursue the stories that tell the world as it changes.
Mr. President, let’s celebrate another time. When this country has changed. When the best among my friends return from abroad where they have emigrated. Let’s celebrate when, in job interviews, my friends are looked at for their CVs instead of their breasts. Let’s celebrate when publishers start paying for work at its real value, in money and not in pats on the back because we’re comrades. Let’s celebrate when worthy, capable people manage this beautiful country, instead of hustlers, lackeys, relatives and shady characters with a whiff of the mafia. Let’s celebrate when your generation of octogenarians does its duty, once and for all stepping aside and passing the baton down.
P.S. I’m also sending you the song “Io non mi sento italiano” (I don’t feel Italian), by Giorgio Gaber. Please listen to it again, because it says what many Italians think. They may sound irreverent, but they are the ones who truly care for the country. Not you.
Gabriele Del Grande
WHO IS GABRIELE DEL GRANDE
Tuscan, traveler, and writer. Born in Lucca in 1982, he graduated from Bologna in Oriental Studies. He writes for L’Unità, Redattore Sociale, and Peace Reporter, and collaborates with Lettera27. In 2006 he founded the observatory on migration victims Fortress Europe. For our publishers he has written Mamadou va a morire (2007) and collaborated on Come un uomo sulla terra (2009). For Infinito Edizioni he published Mamadou va a morire. The massacre of the clandestine migrants in the Mediterranean (2007, second edition, May 2008), Roma senza fissa dimora (2009), Il Mare di Mezzo (2010).
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