Diary of an Escape

by Antonio Negri

  Folio 32

  Today it’s Gianni S. in court. Day thirty. ‘I was tempted to become a pentito – in other words to make false confessions – just so as to get out of prison.’

  Gianni has been inside for three and a half years. At the back of the court, and then in front of our cage, his whole family passes: brothers, sisters, nephews and nieces – one big Veneto working-class family. Gianni has absolutely nothing to do with this whole infamous story. Nothing, absolutely nothing. Not only has he been accused under a series of pretexts right from the start – but now he is being accused by a whole series of pentiti who come out of a particular area. It’s terrible. It is pure infamy. A life has been shattered. Eaten away by a state’s determination to destroy, a state which does not respect the liberty, the simple liberty, of the working class to revolt. In Gianni’s case I have no difficulty in calling his treatment fascist. Purely and completely fascist. Meanwhile, in Milan, Corrado A. is on the attack. With carefully chosen words he says explicitly that ‘Rosso’ was never an armed organization. This position on the real nature of ‘Rosso’ was also evident in the outcome of the recently concluded trial in Bologna. So what are the Milan judges going to do now? Barbone has received his payment in the form of having his girlfriend released from prison, and with the promise that he himself will be freed and given a passport and all the security he wants – after the horrible crime of the killing of Tobagi; and the sole intention of all this was to prove that ‘Rosso’ was indeed an armed organization. This Judas, this slanderer, this agent provocateur, this fattened pig …

  I imagine that the speech made by Corrado A. was serious, lucid and sincere. But how can one have any faith that the courts – which are the sworn enemies of the truth, organized around the small amount of power that repression grants them, and vengeful into the bargain – are capable of accepting this call to truth? I watch as Gianni is cross-examined by the court. The more obvious the juridical error becomes, the harder it is for them to extract themselves from it. Faced with the obviousness of his innocence, the judge seems to take fright. The machine has rendered him a slave. Leaving aside these executioners, the ones who are before me as I write (in the last trial they conducted, they handed out forty life sentences) – let us imagine other judges in this situation, judges actually concerned to arrive at some form of truth. How would they deal with Gianni? How could they breathe the truth of his affirmations, when they have been constructed to be pneumatic and impermeable to the outside? Gianni’s anger in his self-defence is precise, concrete and pugnacious. No, there is no possibility of speaking truth here. Gianni, you are good and honest – but that just makes it all the worse for you! Enough, enough! (G12 Rebibbia – 9 May)

  Folio 33

  Before he goes up to take his turn in court, Emilio tells me: ‘Toni, do you remember that day in ’68, in front of that little factory in Padova – Peraro, wasn’t it? That’s where the party – but also our destiny – began. The police were there. We wanted to get through to the picketing workers. The police told us: “Stay where you are – you can’t cross this point.” And I crossed the police line, for the first time, with a clear awareness that I was taking a step that was irrevocable. I was tense, but I was happy to have done it. They gave way. That day, when I went through the police line, I was taken by an irresistible certainty, a certainty about the truth, a belief in the way things were going. So,’ Emilio continued, ‘today it’s the same. I want freedom. Once the cross-examination is over I shall start a hunger strike to highlight the problem of preventive detention. OK?’

  OK, Emilio, I agree. No point in telling you that today’s situation is not of the kind where such an act of mass illegality can bring about a new law; and, equally, there is no point in telling you that, on the contrary, the illegality of power extinguishes souls and hopes. No point in telling you that we are alone. That’s the way you’re made. You are so beautiful, the way your eyes shine when you present your testimony. A formidable animal made for struggle – and particularly when you shift from the landscapes of generality and emerge in all your singularity. In the adventure of your own life experience – a frank and solitary voice. I am tied to you by a thousand memories – what can I tell you? Sometimes we keep death close because we consider it the only source of life. On this basis, with this charge of energy, this morning you went up for your day on the stand. Severino, the court president, does not understand you – or perhaps he understands you but prefers not to. He is troubled by you and fears your power. It’s a classic: your power points you up as the one responsible, in the horrifying game which these damned people are pursuing, in their theoretical schema which requires a continuity. Once again innocence is turned on its head. But innocent in relation to what? We are not innocent, we are guilty – of the truth. And yet, once again, innocence is turned on its head – because they refuse to accept the empiricism of truth and the verifiability or otherwise of the charges, the value of the law. True innocence, our innocence – innocence turned on its head, guiltiness of truth, for them. That’s the way this underhand mechanism of justice works. Unless … unless you can succeed in overturning it, by attacking its pillars – and succeed in demonstrating its hypocrisy, and the infamous, shameful Machiavellianism of the judges, their identification with the idea of punishment, repression and deceitfulness. They are pushed out of the cave in which they live, in which the shadows of illusion construct their logic. They are pushed into the sunlight, so as to be blinded by the light. Today French Marano in Milan told the story of the killing of Tobagi and of the cruelty of Barbone. ‘It took a couple of seconds.’ And then Barbone, the pig, shoots again. ‘Justice’ – the verb – that’s what they said. And you, Justice, as a noun, are you sure that you are not also a band of small-time killers? Faced with Emilio, faced with his proud defence of the truth, Justice, are you sure that you are any different from Barbone, and that your hands are not holding the same gun that killed Tobagi’s quest for the truth? (G12 Rebibbia – 10 May)

  Folio 34

  Emilio continues his defence. A very powerful vindication of his essence as a subversive being, and then again – on the so-called facts – [one made] with sufficient uprightness, with the disenchantment of truth. Today, after three hearings (we are already into the thirty-third day – this trial seems never-ending), he finishes. He announces his hunger strike in protest against preventive imprisonment. It is a very dramatic moment. We talk. Emilio says: ‘My course of action is individual. I feel it necessary to put my life on the line in order to assert the truths of this trial. I am moving forward on a terrain which must lead outwards from the truth of the trial, from the problem of my own innocence, and must extend out to the whole problem of unjust laws and repressive policies. Against preventive imprisonment and for a political solution to the Years of Lead.’ There is something barbaric in what Emilio feels he is being forced into. Emilio’s heroism and resistance are a practical fact. He is not satisfied with pride in our intelligence, which sustains many of us. I don’t know how I can share in these decisions of his beyond a certain limit – and I feel guilty about this. Maybe Emilio is right with the physicality of the path he has chosen, with the bodily kind of witnessing he is offering. Tomorrow they will take him to the cells, that’s for sure. He will have to multiply the strength of his testimony. Hunger is hard. To go on hunger strike is to eat yourself. He has to do it; we have to win. Then I become aware of the illusion of will into which I have been drawn, and I begin silently to weep. My cell comrades notice me crying and, as is our custom, they say nothing. (G12 Rebibbia – 12 May)

  Folio 35

  The thirty-fourth day of the trial. Silvana is defending herself like an animal at bay over the killing of Saronio. She doesn’t care about any of the rest of it. But the vile slander of having kidnapped her own dear friend, a young man whom she had caressed and loved – no, not that. Those who are accusing her are animals, as are the state and its functionaries, who want to load this infamy onto her. (I am re-readi
ng Spinoza: ‘The aim of the state, I say, is not that of converting into animals men who are gifted with reason …’) In this Saronio affair there is something at stake which is more than just the question of her innocence (and ours) – it is also the question of the institution of the killer-pentito. Here in Rome that means the role played by Fioroni. In Milan, in the Tobagi affair, it means Barbone. What is at issue is the barbarity of a state which has to generate infamy in order to condemn. In order to attack its adversaries politically, it has to hit them morally. The process becomes political through these metaphysical contortions of the prosecution. Today the judges amused themselves by putting on the clothing (finally, they will say among themselves) of common morality. But they are not credible after these days of purely political examination of Luciano, Chicco and Marione (‘I am not concerned with politics but with the law …’). Today these high priests of common ethicity strike me as hypocritical bishops at the court of some king. Silvana reacts with that Lombard sense of innocence and sincerity which must also have characterized those tortured at the Colonna Infame [Column of Infamy]. In her generosity she creates a lot of confusion. Her enormous humanity excuses her. And yet her humanity remains crushed by this impossible scenario, by the machinery that upholds this scenario. Monfe is even stronger. He responds with matching violence, interspersing truth, an impassioned truth, into a long series of denials. With Silvana and Monfe you actually taste the flavour of their innocence, a true innocence, in the face of these massively serious accusations. You feel their sincerity. And at the same time, never more so than now, you feel the pointlessness of it all, the premeditation of the staging of this trial, which is designed to annihilate their souls. The tragedy appears to leave no way out. Today we have reached the thirty-fifth day of the trial. Alongside this tragedy in the courtroom, other tragedies are developing. Arrigo and Schroff – both in isolation cells, both staggering under the weight of accusations coming from the new pentiti, and shattered by the betrayal and falsification of friendships. A new abyss opens up. Always within the happy confines of democratic legality! And then there is Emilio, who continues his hunger strike – in isolation, like a tiger in a cage; a function of annihilation, of destruction. The picture is complete, perfect in its total cruelty. The trial appears for what it is – a hugely powerful and inert machine of destruction, of provocation, of outrage, of isolation, of falsity, of death. An enormous body, flaccid and cold, which is tipped over on top of you. Only with superhuman strength can you resist it and not be instantly suffocated – the asphyxiating, fetid, gas-like breath of the Dragon. We are resisting. And we are learning better to know the object of our loathing. They deserve it. Silvana, Monfe, I hope that you manage to continue your resistance, until some force – I don’t know what, I don’t know which – manages to extend to you the hand of peace that you desire. Giving you what you deserve. A bit of respect, please, for these great, generous comrades. (G12 Rebibbia – 18 –19 March)

  Folio 36

  It is hard to arrive at an overall view of the trial up until this point. But I need to do it. In a few days it will be my turn on the stand. And by then I have to get things clear in my mind – because the trial, and the elections, and my possible eventual election, are beginning to come so close together that the one thing is having an effect on the other. (The elections are getting close, and it’s one big mess. The Radical Party conference has decided to push for abstention. I suppose I was expecting this. I’m telling myself, without any great disillusionment and with a certain irony, ‘Bye-bye freedom!’ And then Rossana, Alberto and Jaro came to see me – and what were they proposing? That I should put myself up as a candidate for the Democrazia Popolare (DP). I could only smile at the thought, and then I felt a bit of shame for the irresponsible love that these very dear comrades bear me. But then Gianfranco Sp. arrived with a lawyer, to get me to sign the formal papers to stand as a candidate for the radicals. How the radicals are able, on the one hand, to proclaim electoral abstention, and on the other to organize electoral lists is one of the mysteries of politics. Marco P., whom I have been seeing these past few days, is like a tightrope walker. The problem is that I find it hard to gauge the elasticity of the rope he is walking. I am still a bit taken aback by this first bruising experience of a relationship with Parliament as an institution.) With justice as an institution, on the other hand, things are unfortunately a lot clearer. Thus far we have not been able to give positive weight to our testimony of the truth. We need to bear this in mind and recognize it with clarity. The machine, and its time, are powerful, infinitely more powerful than us. The time of the machine grinds our history and our present time. Our alternatives, vital, political and intellectual, are destroyed when they come into contact with the machinery of the trial. They are assimilated destructively to its dialectic. The time of the trial annuls historical time, and we are not managing to break its sequence. We are aware of this, but we are unable to do anything about it. Without wanting to exaggerate, and with a certain bonhomie, I actually think that my whole theoretical history is in crisis: between the refusal of work and the theory of the self-valorization of time, the force of the political alternative is not succeeding in making itself heard. It is not managing to check this massive, infernal, inertial mechanism we have before us. It may be dead, but it is enormous. I am having doubts about my own intelligence. Very soon (immediately in fact) big things are awaiting me. I must give strength to hope. I must succeed in this. These days of trial activity are terrible. They are doing the duty that is imposed on them by the machine. (Spinoza: ‘The aim of the state, I say, is not to turn people from reasonable beings into […] automats.’) We have to do more than simply our duty to be honest: we have to transform hope into strength. This is revolution time. (G12 Rebibbia – 22 May)

  Folio 37

  Today it was my turn. On the witness stand. Tragic solitude. The theatre has arrived at its first big show. Jam-packed today. But we don’t start. A coup de théâtre. They won’t let me speak. Instead they begin by reading statements – on and on, without a break, except for the occasional wrangle between the president and the Public Prosecutor. I don’t listen. I hear a babble of words – words flying around, a kind of garbled gibberish, sinnlos. A semi-rituality in the reading. Nobody listens. A continuous murmuring in court. I look around. A change of perspective brings friends closer. Rossana and Massimo – something different from our embalmed presence in this cage. With a chilling sensation I realize the absurdity of the situation. I am a political prisoner in a democratic state. Why deny this state the qualification of democratic? No, really, one cannot – this is a democratic state, democratic in its rituals. The problem is that democracy is not – with this constitution, with this political class – it is neither liberty nor justice. Good old Marx was right. Democratic prison and democratic political trials – democratic exploitation. While the reading of my interrogation statements seems to go on forever, without anybody taking a blind bit of notice, the shame of this democracy leaps before my eyes. I concentrate on the concept – how much suffering it takes to demonstrate the falsity and the dishonour of this democratic mystification. The witness stand in the court is uncomfortable. I have brought with me a fat file of documents, a red file. I put it next to the witness stand and lean on it. I dream of liberty. No, that’s not true – I dream of resistance. That’s not true either. I don’t dream, I never dreamt. Instead I sink into my tiredness and into my hurt dignity. The ritual of the reading is becoming unbearable. They take turns to read, and they read faster and faster, so that it becomes increasingly incomprehensible. It would be laughable if it were not so monstrous, such an infamy. They suffocate you through this ritual. And I sink further. At a certain moment I awake with a start: I ask myself, like every time when a man wants the truth, I ask myself: why? Why this tedious ritual? At the same time, watching them and listening to the monotonous drone of meaningless voices which, as they read, make a nothingness of the suffering, the struggles and the tragedies enclo
sed within those statements – at the same time a weird little thought comes into my head. Namely that I am justice. And for the first time since they put me into prison, without any doubt, without any spiritual effort and without any particular thought process to accompany the sensation, I feel in its entirety the pleasure of a past that has been rich in life and struggles, and the joy of being here to defend it. I feel that what I have theorized and done was just. And still is just. And will continue to be just. The machine does not frighten me. The examination about to happen – and their slanders and vulgarity and brutality – well, all that is their stuff. Stuff of the machine. My role here, in my rediscovered rawness of life and in my simple pride in my own history, will be that of a saboteur. Through a declaration of truth. I have the sense of having pulled on my balaclava … (G12 Rebibbia – 24 May)

  2

  Self-Defence in Court

  25 May to 8 July 1983: Folios 38–57

  Folio 38

  The thirty-eighth day of the trial. The reading of the verbals continues. Maybe Santiapichi is doing this so as to reduce the tension that has crept into things, in the run-up to my court appearance and in relation to the electoral events in which I am involved. He is also doing it in order not to to reintroduce the Moro affair into the 7 April trial – that would make the whole thing just too comical. Then, suddenly, he changes tack. After exchanging words with the public prosecutor he asks: ‘Can you tell me something about yourself personally?’ So the examination has now started. I am accused of insurrection. He lets me talk. I say: