Rome. July 21 2010
When it comes to counting casualties, whether of military action, or of an accident or a disaster, there is a particular poignancy, almost a magical quality, in round numbers. It was therefore quite appropriate and understandable that, some weeks ago, British Prime Minister David Cameron should have commented on the three hundredth British death in the Afghan war.
This circumstance, perhaps, had more of a moral or psychological than a practical significance. It happened, however, to coincide with many other signs pointing to the need of urgent re-evaluation of the ultimate war aims in Afghanistan . It also shortly preceded signs of an evident deepening of the confusion and disarray which, for some time, have characterized both military and civilian activity there.
Much attention is rightly being focussed on the apparently inevitable military failure in Afghanistan. Dismay and frustration at the ever more confused enunciation of the war aims are also frequently expressed as explanations for the reasons of our presence and our ultimate goals there keep multiplying with amazing prolificacy, and have never really managed to be convincing. The lack of clarity emerged from the very beginning, when the justification was apparently simple and straightforward: the elimination and possible capture of the Al Qaeda hierarchy active in Afghanistan. Since then there has been only contradiction and confusion, until recently often amplified and enhanced by a prevalently unquestioning international press.
It is therefore understandable, but nonetheless unfortunate, that little time or space can be dedicated to the impact that this war – added on to two previous decades of conflict – is having on Afghan civil society, especially, but not only, on the women, who, along with significant ethnic minorities have much to fear from a return of the Taliban.
Afghanistan’s ethnic, religious, linguistic and cultural groups live, today as before, in separate and distinctive realities. These differences should be considered in any attempt to envision a viable political future for a country which will always – to its misfortune – maintain a strategic importance.
Afghanistan’s civil society is, to a great extent, an extremely reliable model of stability, and, in spite of all the years of conflict – two foreign invasions with the interval of a long civil war – has not much changed since the years in which we, who lived there and loved the country, could travel freely, safely and comfortably from Kabul to all outlying areas.
It is a well known fact that the Taleban, as a socio-political phenomenon, are a relatively recent creation, encouraged in their early years as a weapon against the Soviet occupation. However, even in the seventies, what could be called a “Taleban mentality” existed in parts of the country: it could be said that for the people (particularly the women) of, for example, Khost or Kandahar, the difference between the years of Taleban rule and their usual lifestyle was not really very noticeable, except, perhaps, for increased security and a drastic fall in the level of corruption.
In fact, we must remember, that the Taleban takeover was welcomed in many parts of Afghanistan and by large segments of the population of Kabul, while it was feared by some of the ethnic groups – mainly the Hazara – in the North and viewed with great apprehension in the Western areas, particularly in Herat.
These differences persist, and I was fascinated by the sense of “déjà vu” I felt, in post-Taleban years, travelling from Herat to Shindand, in the same province: Herat has always been model of “Persian” civilisation, with people, friendly open-minded, and curious about foreigners. One saw many uncovered women’s faces there, and a sight which always struck me as particularly heartening was that of young girls, neatly dressed in school uniforms, marching off to receive the education which the Taleban had denied them. Shindand, instead, had all the austerity of a Pashtu town. The few women on the streets fully covered, the men, all bearded, strictly minding their own business and children being the only ones to show curiosity.
Civil society in Herat and similarly inclined areas would suffer greatly from the return of the Taleban, as would most of the ethnic groups in the north, the Hazara having the additional “handicap” of their “oriental” looks and of being in vast majority Shia.
There is a growing realisation of the need to “talk” to the Taleban, but, in my view, any negotiation with them should include also traditional leaders from non-Taleban areas, even if this should involve the so-called “War Lords”, and should be held on the basis of a future Afghanistan ruled on the principle of regional or provincial autonomy. The Taleban, on their part, will have quite a handful trying to control their own area, which some call “Pashtunistan”, negotiating and fighting with their peers on the Pakistani side of the infamous “Durand Line”.
The welfare of Afghan civil society is, by now, also our responsibility, and it would be tragic to abandon these people to their fate.
Carlo Ungaro
Via Campagnano 51
00060 Sacrofano (Italy)
+39 06 908 6098
+39 320 778 3160
carloungaro@gmail.com
venerdì 23 luglio 2010
The Antiquarian of Herat
Rome, July 21, 2010
The beautifully kept grounds of the main Mosque in the western Afghan city of Herat are flanked by one of the town’s most attractive and busy streets. There, on an unbearably hot summer day of 1972, I came across a very friendly “antiquarian”, who, witnessing my state of exhaustion, took me into his vast store and offered me words of comfort and a large Coca-Cola.
He proudly showed me a “silver” cup, which he claimed, his hand on his heart, was a “very ancient” Russian artefact. So ancient it was that it bore an engraving of the 1957 Sputnik and had been produced in the Soviet Union on the first anniversary of the launch. Most foreign tourists would have greeted this allegation of antiquity either with hoots of derision, or with the certitude that they were dealing with a dishonest man. Both assumptions would have been wrong, unfair and insulting. Traditional Afghans have a deeply embedded sense of history, but, paradoxically, unlike us, they are not obsessed with chronology and are usually unsure even of their own age. I knew this because of childhood memories in Kabul. Our aged plumber, for instance, fascinated me with tales of his encounters with “Sikandar” (Alexander the Great). These are the results of a tradition of oral history, and he was totally convinced of what he was saying. The chronological discrepancy only dawned on me later, as I became progressively more “westernized”.
In retrospect, those days appear idyllic, and yet, by our tactless, overbearing and patronising attitudes, already then we were unwittingly sowing seeds of mutual distrust and animosity.
There are places, where Time really does seem to “stand still”, and I was overjoyed, though scarcely surprised, when, over three decades later (in 2005), I came across the very same “antiquarian”, tall, austere, with an immense black beard, now slowly turning white. He and his vast and dusty shop both appeared unaffected by the succession of tragic and violent events which had troubled the Country and, which, of course are far from over.
He greeted me like a long lost brother, not because he recognised me (in the seventies tourists were plentiful in Afghanistan) but because, like a true Afghan gentleman, he wanted to please and, of course, also spotted a potential customer and, possibly, a friend. I identified myself, and reminded him of our meeting long ago, mentioning the camel-bells he then sold in abundance because a drought had killed many camels.. We embraced fondly, although I’m not really sure that he remembered me, but he obviously liked the story and enjoyed speaking to a foreigner with no need of an interpreter.
These personal souvenirs are not an otiose autobiographical exercise, but rather an attempt to examine the Afghan Civil Society in those years, focussing the attention on how we, the foreign community, could possibly have contributed to the erosion of its lasting, though fragile, stability. The clues were there for all to see: Mainly the great and growing cultural (and, of course, economic) gap between a very westernized, and timidly secularised elite in Kabul and the rest of the country, even on the very outskirts of the Capital. I once rode into a nearby caravanserai and was greeted, as usual, with effusive affability. As I dismounted, I realised that my wristwatch, my glasses and my horse’s tack were probably the only signs that we actually were in the twentieth century, and not in biblical times. Kabul, which some called “the Paris of Central Asia”, seemed very far away indeed both in time and in space.
I am convinced that unwittingly, often with the best of intentions, we, and some of our Afghan friends were convinced that progress could be achieved throughout the country not only in the standard of living but also in a gradual evolution to a more “enlightened” (i.e. “western”) lifestyle. Very few foreigners and a small but growing number of our Afghan friends seemed aware of the dangers or preoccupied by them: the fact was, however, that the centuries-old fabric of Afghan society was being torn, up to then through peaceful means, with no viable alternative being offered.
This is not the appropriate venue in which to discuss the reasons for our continued military presence in Afghanistan, or to offer different options to the growingly elusive military solution.
Our actions, however, have undeniably brought about a violent disruption in the existence of Afghan civil society which, strong as it is (my Herat antiquarian is a living example) would have great difficulty withstanding further upheaval, such as that which could be brought about by our hasty departure.
Efforts are being made to “train” Afghan military and security forces, and there are signs of an orientation to revive the power of the “war lords”. Are any serious, effective efforts being undertaken to leave behind also a cultural legacy to which the Afghan middle classes of the future will be able to adhere? I sometimes feel that also our civilian intervention there will turn out to have been disastrous.
Carlo Ungaro
The beautifully kept grounds of the main Mosque in the western Afghan city of Herat are flanked by one of the town’s most attractive and busy streets. There, on an unbearably hot summer day of 1972, I came across a very friendly “antiquarian”, who, witnessing my state of exhaustion, took me into his vast store and offered me words of comfort and a large Coca-Cola.
He proudly showed me a “silver” cup, which he claimed, his hand on his heart, was a “very ancient” Russian artefact. So ancient it was that it bore an engraving of the 1957 Sputnik and had been produced in the Soviet Union on the first anniversary of the launch. Most foreign tourists would have greeted this allegation of antiquity either with hoots of derision, or with the certitude that they were dealing with a dishonest man. Both assumptions would have been wrong, unfair and insulting. Traditional Afghans have a deeply embedded sense of history, but, paradoxically, unlike us, they are not obsessed with chronology and are usually unsure even of their own age. I knew this because of childhood memories in Kabul. Our aged plumber, for instance, fascinated me with tales of his encounters with “Sikandar” (Alexander the Great). These are the results of a tradition of oral history, and he was totally convinced of what he was saying. The chronological discrepancy only dawned on me later, as I became progressively more “westernized”.
In retrospect, those days appear idyllic, and yet, by our tactless, overbearing and patronising attitudes, already then we were unwittingly sowing seeds of mutual distrust and animosity.
There are places, where Time really does seem to “stand still”, and I was overjoyed, though scarcely surprised, when, over three decades later (in 2005), I came across the very same “antiquarian”, tall, austere, with an immense black beard, now slowly turning white. He and his vast and dusty shop both appeared unaffected by the succession of tragic and violent events which had troubled the Country and, which, of course are far from over.
He greeted me like a long lost brother, not because he recognised me (in the seventies tourists were plentiful in Afghanistan) but because, like a true Afghan gentleman, he wanted to please and, of course, also spotted a potential customer and, possibly, a friend. I identified myself, and reminded him of our meeting long ago, mentioning the camel-bells he then sold in abundance because a drought had killed many camels.. We embraced fondly, although I’m not really sure that he remembered me, but he obviously liked the story and enjoyed speaking to a foreigner with no need of an interpreter.
These personal souvenirs are not an otiose autobiographical exercise, but rather an attempt to examine the Afghan Civil Society in those years, focussing the attention on how we, the foreign community, could possibly have contributed to the erosion of its lasting, though fragile, stability. The clues were there for all to see: Mainly the great and growing cultural (and, of course, economic) gap between a very westernized, and timidly secularised elite in Kabul and the rest of the country, even on the very outskirts of the Capital. I once rode into a nearby caravanserai and was greeted, as usual, with effusive affability. As I dismounted, I realised that my wristwatch, my glasses and my horse’s tack were probably the only signs that we actually were in the twentieth century, and not in biblical times. Kabul, which some called “the Paris of Central Asia”, seemed very far away indeed both in time and in space.
I am convinced that unwittingly, often with the best of intentions, we, and some of our Afghan friends were convinced that progress could be achieved throughout the country not only in the standard of living but also in a gradual evolution to a more “enlightened” (i.e. “western”) lifestyle. Very few foreigners and a small but growing number of our Afghan friends seemed aware of the dangers or preoccupied by them: the fact was, however, that the centuries-old fabric of Afghan society was being torn, up to then through peaceful means, with no viable alternative being offered.
This is not the appropriate venue in which to discuss the reasons for our continued military presence in Afghanistan, or to offer different options to the growingly elusive military solution.
Our actions, however, have undeniably brought about a violent disruption in the existence of Afghan civil society which, strong as it is (my Herat antiquarian is a living example) would have great difficulty withstanding further upheaval, such as that which could be brought about by our hasty departure.
Efforts are being made to “train” Afghan military and security forces, and there are signs of an orientation to revive the power of the “war lords”. Are any serious, effective efforts being undertaken to leave behind also a cultural legacy to which the Afghan middle classes of the future will be able to adhere? I sometimes feel that also our civilian intervention there will turn out to have been disastrous.
Carlo Ungaro
venerdì 9 luglio 2010
THE D.R. CONGO FIFTY YEARS ON
Greed and exploitation: DR Congo's 50th anniversary
Carlo Ungaro
2010-07-08, Issue 489
http://pambazuka.org/en/category/comment/65770
Printer friendly version
cc J HWith the DR Congo having passed 50 years of independence, Carlo Ungaro reflects on a turbulent history, the originally pervasive support for Mobutu and the greed of myriad interests in destabilising the country.On 30 June 1960, the 'Belgian Congo' obtained its independence, at a time in which a number of former African colonies were achieving the same goal.
The beginnings were inauspicious, with the visit of King Baudouin being marred first by Prime Minister Patrice Lumumba’s inaugural speech, which departed from the agreed text and contained a scathing – if well articulated and well deserved – attack on the 'white rulers' of the Congo, and secondly by an incident which appeared comical at the time, but somehow was an omen of things to come: in the course of the royal motorcade, a Congolese citizen eluded security barriers, leapt into the king’s limousine and made off with the ceremonial sword.
I was posted there – my first diplomatic posting – shortly after the murder of Patrice Lumumba. Mobutu’s (then Lieutenant Colonel Joseph Désiré Mobutu) first military takeover had taken place and had ended with his returning power to the civilians, as he had promised. A 'moderate' democratic government was then already in existence, which, by its composition and actions, gave rise to justifiable optimism for the county’s future.
Over the distance of all these years, I still occasionally ask myself 'what went wrong?', and why a land so rich both in natural and human resources (Congolese art and music are second to none in Africa, and already then there was an effervescent intellectual middle class) ended up sliding further and further into chaos and senseless violence.
It is hard to pin down a turning point. The violent rebellion in the east, with the consequent addition of foreign (mainly white) mercenaries to the equation of violence, Moise Tchombe’s seizing of power with the help of Belgian (and other Western) interests – the same figure who some years earlier had brought about the Katanga 'secession' – and the rather suspect death of UN Secretary General Dag Hammarskjöld were all dramatic events causing a rise in existing tensions, but none of them seemed decisive.
Then, in November of 1965, Mobutu (by now General Mobutu) seized power again. Those of us who had met Mobutu and who really thought we knew (and liked) the man heaved a sigh of relief. He asked for 'five years' and then he would return power to the civilians, and, of course, because of the historic precedent, we believed him. There was much enthusiasm during those first heady times – Congolese musical geniuses came up with songs and ditties such as 'Cinq ans, cinq ans, Mobutu au gouvernement' – and even normally sceptical observers, the so-called 'seasoned diplomats', had to admit that he had introduced a new dynamic style in Congolese political life, proclaiming to enthusiastically cheering crowds that he was about to abolish tribalism, corruption, poverty and other ills.
AGAIN, WHAT WENT WRONG?
Even after all these years, Lumumba’s speech is well worth listening to, and for those of us who were in Congo in the period immediately following his assassination, it had a feeling of authenticity and appeared still applicable to many – certainly not all – European residents. This could relate especially, but not exclusively, to those Belgians – mainly Flemish – who had decided to 'stay on' after a precipitous flight caused by the first 'troubles', an army mutiny, shortly after independence.
Some did not hide their contempt for the 'natives', and spoke with open nostalgia of the 'good old days' and of the recent Katanga 'secession'. In the months preceding Mobutu’s takeover, these were ardently hoping and actively working for the creation of a Tchombe government, which they felt would be more 'sensitive' to their demands. The racism, so eloquently depicted by Lumumba, was still very active, and how often did I hear the tired joke of those who would go to South Africa because they were dreaming of a 'white Christmas'.
I have read, with more than usual interest, that Louis Michel, a very influential Belgian MEP (member of the European Parliament) and a former European Union commissioner, has been trying to rehabilitate the figure of King Leopold, to whom, instead, most historians and observers attribute the responsibility for the Congolese disaster. These statements certainly appear shocking to most of us, but I believe that still today, as indeed in the 1960s, there is a hardcore school of thought in which the Congo atrocities are minimised, indeed justified, and the responsibility for the disastrous outcome of Congolese independence is attributed to a hopelessly 'primitive' mentality and to the work of well-intentioned but misinformed 'do-gooders' who have conspired to instil wrong ideas into the minds of the Congolese people.
Michela Wrong some years ago wrote an extremely pleasing and important book on the end of the Mobutu regime, and gave it the evocative title 'In the Footsteps of Mr. Kurtz', with, of course, a reference to Joseph Conrad’s 'The Heart of Darkness'. The temptation to explain current political events through historical analysis is always strong, but has its pitfalls and needs to be controlled. In the case of the Democratic Republic of the Congo, however, retracing, as it were, Conrad’s Congolese journey could be a useful exercise – as indeed, a swift perusal of the Congo’s incredibly cruel 19th century ordeal could show the reasons for its weak and fragile social structure.
It would be a mistake, however, to attribute the Congolese tragedy entirely and exclusively to King Leopold or to the subsequent Belgian colonial rule. Indeed, in later years, the colony received a rather valid infrastructure system, no worse than that which was left by other colonial powers, and, thanks to reforms in the education system, a literate, cultured middle class was also emerging.
The tragedy of the Congo, from the days of Stanley to the present, has been its immense, almost unbelievable wealth, and the uncontrolled, unbridled greed with which it has been – and is being – exploited. It has to be added that if this exploitation was perpetrated exclusively by Europeans as long as the Congo was a colony and in the immediate aftermath of its independence, in later years the scramble for the country’s riches has included many Congolese themselves working either with foreigners or on their own.
I saw this cancer growing when I was there, starting in Katanga and then spreading to the rest of the country, corrupting all those it touched, and finally bringing about the country’s total ruin.
Many of us, in 1965, really believed that Mobutu would be able to turn things around, and I am rather convinced that he, in good faith, actually believed so himself. For a while, after seizing the presidency, Mobutu remained, at least in appearance, immune from the megalomania and the paranoia so often associated with absolute power: he still was a seemingly unassuming, intelligent, humorous individual, to all appearances earnestly dedicated to the welfare and development of his country.
One of the first signals of incipient paranoia came the following year, when a former prime minister and three former cabinet ministers, clad only in their underwear, were publicly hanged for allegedly conspiring to overthrow Mobutu. Such was his charisma, however, and so deep the feeling that he was basically a 'good guy', that until the very last many of us – Congolese and foreign – were sure that a last-minute reprieve would be issued. The men, instead, were duly executed and it can be said that the spiral of megalomaniac paranoia and of absolute corruption and accumulation of wealth began more or less concurrently, although very few if any of us, the foreign observers, had an inkling of what was to come.
The last memory I have of Kinshasa is that of waiting for my final flight, in the blistering heat of Ndjili airport, thinking to myself, quite confidently, that 'things could not get any worse', while instead the deterioration was constant and lasted almost four decades, bringing the Democratic Republic of the Congo to the verge of becoming a 'failed state'.
Europeans and successive American administrations share a lot of responsibility, if nothing else for having bolstered and thus encouraged, for many years, the misdeeds of a regime such as Mobutu’s in the name of security and anti-communism. But human greed was and is the prime culprit of the situation there. We can only hope that the solemn occasion of the 50th anniversary of independence will give the Congolese and their friends the strength and the means to reverse the situation.
I can’t help, however, being obsessed by a nagging doubt, and I keep asking myself if a similar fate is, for instance, being prepared for Afghanistan. Why was the 'discovery' of vast riches there given so much publicity at a moment when Afghan civilian social structure has been weakened by three decades of conflict? The lessons of history are there, but few seem interested in learning from them.
BROUGHT TO YOU BY PAMBAZUKA NEWS
* Carlo Ungaro is a retired senior Italian diplomatic officer, who has spent many years of his career in Asia (Central Asia, Afghanistan) and Africa (Congo, Somalia).
* Please send comments to editor@pambazuka.org or comment online at Pambazuka News.
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ISSN 1753-6839 Fahamu
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ISSN 1753-6847 Pambazuka News en Français http://www.pambazuka.org/fr/
ISSN 1757-6504 Pambazuka News em Português http://www.pambazuka.org/pt/
© 2009 Fahamu - http://www.fahamu.org/
Carlo Ungaro
2010-07-08, Issue 489
http://pambazuka.org/en/category/comment/65770
Printer friendly version
cc J HWith the DR Congo having passed 50 years of independence, Carlo Ungaro reflects on a turbulent history, the originally pervasive support for Mobutu and the greed of myriad interests in destabilising the country.On 30 June 1960, the 'Belgian Congo' obtained its independence, at a time in which a number of former African colonies were achieving the same goal.
The beginnings were inauspicious, with the visit of King Baudouin being marred first by Prime Minister Patrice Lumumba’s inaugural speech, which departed from the agreed text and contained a scathing – if well articulated and well deserved – attack on the 'white rulers' of the Congo, and secondly by an incident which appeared comical at the time, but somehow was an omen of things to come: in the course of the royal motorcade, a Congolese citizen eluded security barriers, leapt into the king’s limousine and made off with the ceremonial sword.
I was posted there – my first diplomatic posting – shortly after the murder of Patrice Lumumba. Mobutu’s (then Lieutenant Colonel Joseph Désiré Mobutu) first military takeover had taken place and had ended with his returning power to the civilians, as he had promised. A 'moderate' democratic government was then already in existence, which, by its composition and actions, gave rise to justifiable optimism for the county’s future.
Over the distance of all these years, I still occasionally ask myself 'what went wrong?', and why a land so rich both in natural and human resources (Congolese art and music are second to none in Africa, and already then there was an effervescent intellectual middle class) ended up sliding further and further into chaos and senseless violence.
It is hard to pin down a turning point. The violent rebellion in the east, with the consequent addition of foreign (mainly white) mercenaries to the equation of violence, Moise Tchombe’s seizing of power with the help of Belgian (and other Western) interests – the same figure who some years earlier had brought about the Katanga 'secession' – and the rather suspect death of UN Secretary General Dag Hammarskjöld were all dramatic events causing a rise in existing tensions, but none of them seemed decisive.
Then, in November of 1965, Mobutu (by now General Mobutu) seized power again. Those of us who had met Mobutu and who really thought we knew (and liked) the man heaved a sigh of relief. He asked for 'five years' and then he would return power to the civilians, and, of course, because of the historic precedent, we believed him. There was much enthusiasm during those first heady times – Congolese musical geniuses came up with songs and ditties such as 'Cinq ans, cinq ans, Mobutu au gouvernement' – and even normally sceptical observers, the so-called 'seasoned diplomats', had to admit that he had introduced a new dynamic style in Congolese political life, proclaiming to enthusiastically cheering crowds that he was about to abolish tribalism, corruption, poverty and other ills.
AGAIN, WHAT WENT WRONG?
Even after all these years, Lumumba’s speech is well worth listening to, and for those of us who were in Congo in the period immediately following his assassination, it had a feeling of authenticity and appeared still applicable to many – certainly not all – European residents. This could relate especially, but not exclusively, to those Belgians – mainly Flemish – who had decided to 'stay on' after a precipitous flight caused by the first 'troubles', an army mutiny, shortly after independence.
Some did not hide their contempt for the 'natives', and spoke with open nostalgia of the 'good old days' and of the recent Katanga 'secession'. In the months preceding Mobutu’s takeover, these were ardently hoping and actively working for the creation of a Tchombe government, which they felt would be more 'sensitive' to their demands. The racism, so eloquently depicted by Lumumba, was still very active, and how often did I hear the tired joke of those who would go to South Africa because they were dreaming of a 'white Christmas'.
I have read, with more than usual interest, that Louis Michel, a very influential Belgian MEP (member of the European Parliament) and a former European Union commissioner, has been trying to rehabilitate the figure of King Leopold, to whom, instead, most historians and observers attribute the responsibility for the Congolese disaster. These statements certainly appear shocking to most of us, but I believe that still today, as indeed in the 1960s, there is a hardcore school of thought in which the Congo atrocities are minimised, indeed justified, and the responsibility for the disastrous outcome of Congolese independence is attributed to a hopelessly 'primitive' mentality and to the work of well-intentioned but misinformed 'do-gooders' who have conspired to instil wrong ideas into the minds of the Congolese people.
Michela Wrong some years ago wrote an extremely pleasing and important book on the end of the Mobutu regime, and gave it the evocative title 'In the Footsteps of Mr. Kurtz', with, of course, a reference to Joseph Conrad’s 'The Heart of Darkness'. The temptation to explain current political events through historical analysis is always strong, but has its pitfalls and needs to be controlled. In the case of the Democratic Republic of the Congo, however, retracing, as it were, Conrad’s Congolese journey could be a useful exercise – as indeed, a swift perusal of the Congo’s incredibly cruel 19th century ordeal could show the reasons for its weak and fragile social structure.
It would be a mistake, however, to attribute the Congolese tragedy entirely and exclusively to King Leopold or to the subsequent Belgian colonial rule. Indeed, in later years, the colony received a rather valid infrastructure system, no worse than that which was left by other colonial powers, and, thanks to reforms in the education system, a literate, cultured middle class was also emerging.
The tragedy of the Congo, from the days of Stanley to the present, has been its immense, almost unbelievable wealth, and the uncontrolled, unbridled greed with which it has been – and is being – exploited. It has to be added that if this exploitation was perpetrated exclusively by Europeans as long as the Congo was a colony and in the immediate aftermath of its independence, in later years the scramble for the country’s riches has included many Congolese themselves working either with foreigners or on their own.
I saw this cancer growing when I was there, starting in Katanga and then spreading to the rest of the country, corrupting all those it touched, and finally bringing about the country’s total ruin.
Many of us, in 1965, really believed that Mobutu would be able to turn things around, and I am rather convinced that he, in good faith, actually believed so himself. For a while, after seizing the presidency, Mobutu remained, at least in appearance, immune from the megalomania and the paranoia so often associated with absolute power: he still was a seemingly unassuming, intelligent, humorous individual, to all appearances earnestly dedicated to the welfare and development of his country.
One of the first signals of incipient paranoia came the following year, when a former prime minister and three former cabinet ministers, clad only in their underwear, were publicly hanged for allegedly conspiring to overthrow Mobutu. Such was his charisma, however, and so deep the feeling that he was basically a 'good guy', that until the very last many of us – Congolese and foreign – were sure that a last-minute reprieve would be issued. The men, instead, were duly executed and it can be said that the spiral of megalomaniac paranoia and of absolute corruption and accumulation of wealth began more or less concurrently, although very few if any of us, the foreign observers, had an inkling of what was to come.
The last memory I have of Kinshasa is that of waiting for my final flight, in the blistering heat of Ndjili airport, thinking to myself, quite confidently, that 'things could not get any worse', while instead the deterioration was constant and lasted almost four decades, bringing the Democratic Republic of the Congo to the verge of becoming a 'failed state'.
Europeans and successive American administrations share a lot of responsibility, if nothing else for having bolstered and thus encouraged, for many years, the misdeeds of a regime such as Mobutu’s in the name of security and anti-communism. But human greed was and is the prime culprit of the situation there. We can only hope that the solemn occasion of the 50th anniversary of independence will give the Congolese and their friends the strength and the means to reverse the situation.
I can’t help, however, being obsessed by a nagging doubt, and I keep asking myself if a similar fate is, for instance, being prepared for Afghanistan. Why was the 'discovery' of vast riches there given so much publicity at a moment when Afghan civilian social structure has been weakened by three decades of conflict? The lessons of history are there, but few seem interested in learning from them.
BROUGHT TO YOU BY PAMBAZUKA NEWS
* Carlo Ungaro is a retired senior Italian diplomatic officer, who has spent many years of his career in Asia (Central Asia, Afghanistan) and Africa (Congo, Somalia).
* Please send comments to editor@pambazuka.org or comment online at Pambazuka News.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Readers' Comments
Let your voice be heard. Comment on this article.
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ISSN 1753-6839 Fahamu
ISSN 1753-6839 Pambazuka News English Edition http://www.pambazuka.org/en/
ISSN 1753-6847 Pambazuka News en Français http://www.pambazuka.org/fr/
ISSN 1757-6504 Pambazuka News em Português http://www.pambazuka.org/pt/
© 2009 Fahamu - http://www.fahamu.org/
giovedì 1 luglio 2010
ITALY'S DRIFT TOWARDS A BURGEOIS NEO-FASCISM
This article has been published by "Open Democracy" with the title: "Italy’s “business as usual”
There is a certain kind of drift into a regime that has nothing to do with the introduction of paramilitary stances, Roman salutes or party uniforms: more to do with television
Carlo Ungaro
The year 2011 will mark the 150th anniversary of the unification of Italy. The most influential political party in the Italian ruling coalition – the “Northern League” – has publicly and flamboyantly indicated its lack of interest in the celebrations, and its leaders were conspicuously absent at the parade held for Italy’s National Day last June 2.
This is just one example of the malaise which permeates the Italian political scene today, even as many notice – with growing, impotent fascination – the country’s seemingly inexorable glide into what could be defined as a form of “bourgeois neo-fascism”, greeted with apathetic indifference by the vast majority of the population.
The roots of this unwholesome situation reach far back into the country’s history. At the very beginning of its reign, in 1861, the fledgling Italian Monarchy found itself confronted by a number of major problems which it failed to tackle, and which many decades later still persist. The lack of a really deep-seated sense of national unity; the great social and economic gap between North and South; together with the oppressive presence of the Pope and the Roman Catholic hierarchy on the national turf, were certainly three of the biggest concerns. Although partially tackled – with some success – both by the Fascist regime (1922-1943) and by subsequent republican governments, they have been, and still remain, major impediments to the country’s political and social progress.
The first two of these problems go hand in hand: and as the economic gap between north and south widens, so too does the intense rivalry between two very distinctive cultures, constantly eroding the sense of unity bound by the use of a common language with its historical and cultural resonances of belonging to the same nation. The “Northern League” tends to exasperate feelings of frustration which they insist are due to the useless handicap imposed on the regions of the North by a “thieving and lazy” South. Their request for a “federal” solution is often accompanied by empty and yet effective threats of “secession”.
There is a more than apparent contradiction in the situation: a strong government, with definite authoritarian tendencies, supported by a very large parliamentary majority is compelled, by its most prominent partner, to dedicate the bulk of its energies to the decentralisation of power and its devolution to regional authorities. The results can be chaotic and begin to show growing rifts within the majority itself.
The considerable, insidious weight of the Catholic Church constitutes, in itself, a fundamental factor in Italy’s failure to achieve a normal social status. At present, however, its influence appears secondary compared to the constant erosion of Constitutional guarantees on the part of the Government, as well as the growing centrifugal tendencies shown by the Northern League, easily the country’s most efficient and influential political party.
There is one fundamental factor, however, that is at the basis of the current crisis in Italian democracy, contributing directly to the gradual loss of democratic sensibility by the population: the Prime Minister, Silvio Berlusconi, owns the three most relevant private national television channels. By grossly overreaching his powers as head of Government, he exerts undue influence on public channels as well. He does not attempt to hide this and has frequently stated that “in a civilised country” the “state television” (he never uses the correct term “public television”) does not broadcast programmes which are “critical of the Government”.
He has also openly reiterated that “since the people have given me such a large majority, I must be allowed to govern”. This statement signals a deep, oft-stated aspiration radically to modify the Constitution (which he has often and publicly dismissed as a “Soviet- inspired document”) in order to remove or fundamentally loosen those “checks and balances” which still work, albeit in ever more difficult circumstances.
He has repeatedly referred to himself as “the greatest Prime Minister in Italy’s history”, and his efficient propaganda machine keeps informing the Italian public of his popularity and triumphs on the international scene: a telephone call by Berlusconi to Angela Merkel, Italians have been told, brought about the success of the recent EU summit on the Greek crisis. There is no trace of this in the international media, but then, it is easy to take advantage of Italy’s cultural isolation. Most Italians are stubbornly monolingual and, for example, have never seen a foreign film if not badly translated and atrociously dubbed, nor do they follow international news on foreign channels. Their only source of information is television, because only a small minority read the vast number of Italian newspapers, most of which are of a high standard.
At the moment the Government appears to be losing a battle, thanks to the “defection” of some political allies, which would have had Parliament approving a law - which the press has almost unanimously dubbed “the muzzle law” - designed to silence most forms of investigative journalism and to undermine the powers of public prosecutors and judges. If the law should pass, the control of telephone conversations would be difficult and the reproduction of bugged conversations would be a crime: this would protect many leading politicians (the main object of the proposed legislation) but it would also be a boon for organised criminality.
According to the official propaganda “leitmotif”, virtually all Italians are subject to arbitrary telephone control, and the law is designed to safeguard the sacred right to privacy. In reality the number of legally established telephone controls (or other forms of electronic espionage) is extremely limited and applies only to people under investigation, or strongly suspected of very serious crimes, including Mafia activity.
In reality the law is designed to prevent the press from reporting precisely on those links between politics and criminality which are of great public interest, and the “privacy” which would be defended concerns highly placed political figures, who for some reason, often are involved in conversation with some of the people under investigation.
It is also true that some newspapers have very easily and freely published extracts from official transcripts which concerned prurient aspects of some politician's private life and had nothing to do with any criminal investigation: the point is to find a solution that can prevent these abuses without muzzling the press in its right to conduct investigative reporting.
The Government has had to back down from its initial demands, but the battle is still raging.
The path towards the transformation of the government into a “regime” is, far from complete, and is taking place in a “business as usual” atmosphere which does not plan the introduction of paramilitary stances, Roman salutes or party uniforms. This makes it all the more dangerous and menacing.
Some have described the period we are living through as “Italy’s Weimar” – referring to Germany’s ill-fated democratic experience between World War One and the Nazi regime. Others claim that if Italy, in its present state, were to apply for membership in the European Union, doubts would be expressed on its eligibility.
These, doubtless, are exaggerations: but there is a feeling here that Italian democracy is in real danger.
There is a certain kind of drift into a regime that has nothing to do with the introduction of paramilitary stances, Roman salutes or party uniforms: more to do with television
Carlo Ungaro
The year 2011 will mark the 150th anniversary of the unification of Italy. The most influential political party in the Italian ruling coalition – the “Northern League” – has publicly and flamboyantly indicated its lack of interest in the celebrations, and its leaders were conspicuously absent at the parade held for Italy’s National Day last June 2.
This is just one example of the malaise which permeates the Italian political scene today, even as many notice – with growing, impotent fascination – the country’s seemingly inexorable glide into what could be defined as a form of “bourgeois neo-fascism”, greeted with apathetic indifference by the vast majority of the population.
The roots of this unwholesome situation reach far back into the country’s history. At the very beginning of its reign, in 1861, the fledgling Italian Monarchy found itself confronted by a number of major problems which it failed to tackle, and which many decades later still persist. The lack of a really deep-seated sense of national unity; the great social and economic gap between North and South; together with the oppressive presence of the Pope and the Roman Catholic hierarchy on the national turf, were certainly three of the biggest concerns. Although partially tackled – with some success – both by the Fascist regime (1922-1943) and by subsequent republican governments, they have been, and still remain, major impediments to the country’s political and social progress.
The first two of these problems go hand in hand: and as the economic gap between north and south widens, so too does the intense rivalry between two very distinctive cultures, constantly eroding the sense of unity bound by the use of a common language with its historical and cultural resonances of belonging to the same nation. The “Northern League” tends to exasperate feelings of frustration which they insist are due to the useless handicap imposed on the regions of the North by a “thieving and lazy” South. Their request for a “federal” solution is often accompanied by empty and yet effective threats of “secession”.
There is a more than apparent contradiction in the situation: a strong government, with definite authoritarian tendencies, supported by a very large parliamentary majority is compelled, by its most prominent partner, to dedicate the bulk of its energies to the decentralisation of power and its devolution to regional authorities. The results can be chaotic and begin to show growing rifts within the majority itself.
The considerable, insidious weight of the Catholic Church constitutes, in itself, a fundamental factor in Italy’s failure to achieve a normal social status. At present, however, its influence appears secondary compared to the constant erosion of Constitutional guarantees on the part of the Government, as well as the growing centrifugal tendencies shown by the Northern League, easily the country’s most efficient and influential political party.
There is one fundamental factor, however, that is at the basis of the current crisis in Italian democracy, contributing directly to the gradual loss of democratic sensibility by the population: the Prime Minister, Silvio Berlusconi, owns the three most relevant private national television channels. By grossly overreaching his powers as head of Government, he exerts undue influence on public channels as well. He does not attempt to hide this and has frequently stated that “in a civilised country” the “state television” (he never uses the correct term “public television”) does not broadcast programmes which are “critical of the Government”.
He has also openly reiterated that “since the people have given me such a large majority, I must be allowed to govern”. This statement signals a deep, oft-stated aspiration radically to modify the Constitution (which he has often and publicly dismissed as a “Soviet- inspired document”) in order to remove or fundamentally loosen those “checks and balances” which still work, albeit in ever more difficult circumstances.
He has repeatedly referred to himself as “the greatest Prime Minister in Italy’s history”, and his efficient propaganda machine keeps informing the Italian public of his popularity and triumphs on the international scene: a telephone call by Berlusconi to Angela Merkel, Italians have been told, brought about the success of the recent EU summit on the Greek crisis. There is no trace of this in the international media, but then, it is easy to take advantage of Italy’s cultural isolation. Most Italians are stubbornly monolingual and, for example, have never seen a foreign film if not badly translated and atrociously dubbed, nor do they follow international news on foreign channels. Their only source of information is television, because only a small minority read the vast number of Italian newspapers, most of which are of a high standard.
At the moment the Government appears to be losing a battle, thanks to the “defection” of some political allies, which would have had Parliament approving a law - which the press has almost unanimously dubbed “the muzzle law” - designed to silence most forms of investigative journalism and to undermine the powers of public prosecutors and judges. If the law should pass, the control of telephone conversations would be difficult and the reproduction of bugged conversations would be a crime: this would protect many leading politicians (the main object of the proposed legislation) but it would also be a boon for organised criminality.
According to the official propaganda “leitmotif”, virtually all Italians are subject to arbitrary telephone control, and the law is designed to safeguard the sacred right to privacy. In reality the number of legally established telephone controls (or other forms of electronic espionage) is extremely limited and applies only to people under investigation, or strongly suspected of very serious crimes, including Mafia activity.
In reality the law is designed to prevent the press from reporting precisely on those links between politics and criminality which are of great public interest, and the “privacy” which would be defended concerns highly placed political figures, who for some reason, often are involved in conversation with some of the people under investigation.
It is also true that some newspapers have very easily and freely published extracts from official transcripts which concerned prurient aspects of some politician's private life and had nothing to do with any criminal investigation: the point is to find a solution that can prevent these abuses without muzzling the press in its right to conduct investigative reporting.
The Government has had to back down from its initial demands, but the battle is still raging.
The path towards the transformation of the government into a “regime” is, far from complete, and is taking place in a “business as usual” atmosphere which does not plan the introduction of paramilitary stances, Roman salutes or party uniforms. This makes it all the more dangerous and menacing.
Some have described the period we are living through as “Italy’s Weimar” – referring to Germany’s ill-fated democratic experience between World War One and the Nazi regime. Others claim that if Italy, in its present state, were to apply for membership in the European Union, doubts would be expressed on its eligibility.
These, doubtless, are exaggerations: but there is a feeling here that Italian democracy is in real danger.
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