Strikes

Recently in Italy there's always been something somewhere been shut down because of a series of strikes ('sciopero' in Italian). Today, for example, every airport in the country is closed for a one-day srike. Apparently, however, completely shutting down is forbidden by law, so in the morning and the afternoon the airports are open for a few hours. The strikes feel natural, like a regular annual occurrence. One day, suddenly, there's an announcement, followed, with a fair degree of certainty, by a strike. I remember an occasion when my husband teased me almost into tears by commenting that recently there had been no mail from Japan and that I had been forgotten. Actually the cause was a post office strike. It went on for three months, during which time small post offices completely closed down and just large post offices operated on a limited basis. It was hard to know whether to laugh or to cry. At the end of it all, I didn't have the courage to open a parcel of "half-cooked raw-miso boiled noodles" that arrived six months late. Even now I keenly remember how upset I was at having to throw them away. People don't forget grudges related to food. The latest strike was even more impressive. Last week all transport facilities, except for private taxis, staged a half-day strike. Naturally the roads overflowed with cars, leading to massive traffic jams. The streets were chaotic. "It's a really quiet match today," I commented about a soccer game on TV: it turned out the commentators were on strike. I must say I preferred this to the machine-gun commentary the Italian commentators scream at the top of their voices. The reason for the strikes was clear-cut: protests and demonstrations against the revisions to the workers' constitution proposed by the cabinet led by the new prime minister Berlusconi. The aim of this revision is to make it possible for companies and employers to freely dismiss employees. Not surprisingly, labour unions across the country have exploded in anger.

Our house is surrounded by a park. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say in the middle of miscellaneous woodland suddenly you come upon a house . . . It was put up when you could build houses anywhere you liked. My husband's family bought it ten years ago. There days you can't even cut a branch or pick a blade of grass without permission. No cars are allowed in except those belonging to residents, so we are living in a protected environment. There are benches and public drinking fountains here and there on the footpath in front of our house: it's a place where ordinary people come to relax. During the daytime there are brigades of retired old men (for some reason, there are no old women); in the evening, their place is taken by young couples, and on weekends the park is full of family groups. I've been living here for five years and I've made some friends among the brigades of old men. I thought it might be a good idea to grab people who have come here for a walk and teach them go, so one fine day I went out for a walk with a 9x9 board. First, I looked for an old man whom I liked. He's a cheerful Italian of about 80, living on a pension and he always greets me with "How are you, pretty Signora?" Don't get the wrong impression: his words have no meaning, they're just a standard greeting. Even so, they give me a lift. That day, unusually, he was surrounded by several people of about my age. Somehow, they didn't seem very cheerful. After listening to them carefully, I worked out the problem: the local employment agency was on strike. They were all looking for work, but that day they were at a loss what to do with themselves. What a chance for me! I pulled out my 9x9 board and launched into an explanation of go. Just when everyone was getting really interested, there was a delicate question. "Do you make money from this game?" "Well, the way things are just now it's difficult." After a short silence my questioner said: "You've got it tough. But keep trying. Jesus will protect you." No answer from me. I wonder if they found jobs. I haven't run into them since. I hope they've made some use of the 9x9 set I gave them. Tomorrow the welfare workers union is scheduled to strike. There's no end in sight to this battle.

(Monthly Go World, February 2002)