Report From The Protest

“I am in the middle of it all: chaos and poetry.” – Anna Akhmatova

I

10/05/2025 Saturday

Lucca

Words and sky combine in perfect clarity. This line comes to me as I stand on the balcony drinking my morning coffee, watching the starlings perform their chaotic choreography. The sunshine is exuberantly brilliant, the warmth gentle to the skin, the advancing breath of summer instills a frankness and confidence in living: one’s blood simmers with the desire to be outdoors and do something. The day so outspokenly beautiful as though the disasters were a bygone memory. I am about to leave for the sun-soaked rebellion of the city of Livorno. A demonstration for Palestine.

II

Livorno

Every time I visit Livorno the first thing I do is stop by the bustling wet market in Piazza Cavallotti followed by a brief tour at the neighboring historic public market Mercato delle vettovaglie built in the second half of the 19^th century—a beautiful specimen of early architectural modernization in Livorno.

And when I am within the vivacious market I am transported back to my childhood in Manila when my mother would take me and my brothers to the wet market to teach us how to choose the fresh goods, how to negotiate with the vendors, and help her carry the stuff home. Public markets all over the world seem to share the same ebullient spirit of the land. Their very presence is steeped in the local history and passions of the people. The rhapsody of raucous voices of vendors, the anarchic mixture of smells of fruits and vegetables, fish and meat, the spectacle of liveliness and the mood of community enthuses you with a sense of homeliness and gathering.

Traditional markets do not simply portray the calculus of buying and selling; the economics is simply an admission to a form of intimacy. The intimacy of meeting—of seeing, of touching the produce for yourself, of knowing where your food comes from, of hearing and listening to the vendors snare you with their theatrical voices: “For this price, I’ll give you more!” “1 kilo for five, what are you waiting for?” “Sweet and fresh as you ladies and gentlemen.” It is the intimacy of the old ways of face to face business—of negotiating and transacting not as mere buyers and sellers but as neighbors; and the unavoidable conversation that ensues.

The corporate supermarkets that pop up in every town and city are dull and dead in comparison. The bored employees, the artificial lights, the barren atmosphere, the alienating order and neatness of rows and rows of mostly processed articles and the fact of the total anonymity between producers and consumers makes corporate supermarkets a loveless and lonely place. Traditional markets on the other hand participate deeply not only in the local economy and nourishment of neighborhoods, they also maintain the community psychology, the sense of gathering and belonging, and the need of face to face interaction in a society ever more alienated from itself.

I take a picture of a fruit stand—Arance Sicilia, Mele Gold, Fuji Trentino, Pesche Gialle e Noci…--and post on my Instagram story. Not long after I receive a reply to my photograph. M. who lives in Gaza (who lives the daily unimaginable horrors of death and destruction) writes in his sparse English: “I swear I’m in it!”

Here is a young man who was born, lives, will probably die in a concentration camp called Gaza, glimpses a photograph of a fruit stand in Livorno and swears that there was life before all this. I fall into ache and pity; his words tear through me with so much grief I want to sit in a secret corner and cry. I don’t reply for I know not the right words to console their abandonment. The suffering of the Palestinians stands there for all the world to see. The Russian poet Marina Tsvetaeva:

There is no more I can lose. We have

            reached the end of ending.

And so I simply stroke, and stroke

            and stroke your face.

—Poem of the End

( In Gaza, a person eats one meal every two or three days.)

There is still an hour and a half to spare before the protest. I pause at a charming café right across Piazza Cavour where the demonstration will rendezvous.

I order espresso and a pastry covered with pistachio cream. I sit down, take my notebook and pen from my bag, and write down some notes for what I’m currently working on. A short comic story about four daring highschool students who will attempt to ignite a revolution by enacting in real life a theatrical play and a literary and existential analysis of modern Palestinian poetry. A group of police officers enter the café, one of them is a friend of the barista and they begin to chat. They, too are prepared for their duty today.

I look out through the glass wall and see demonstrators coming from all directions in Piazza Cavour. There is not a molecule of snobbishness or dullness in Livorno. Rebellion, despite all the dangers involved, in this city is as much a pleasure as lying in the sunshine or dabbling in the sea. But it is the opposite of pleasure-seeking, rather it is about ameliorating an injured sense of justice which involves passionate fun.

In Piazza Cavour a huge Palestinian flag is spread out like the dress of a bride surrounded by the swelling protestors. An old white van carries a stereo from which a voice is announcing that there is a change of route: instead of Piazza della repubblica as the final stop of the march it will be in the commercial port where, it has been discovered, a shipment of arms destined for Israel will be loaded in a few days.

The looming statue of the statesman gazes into the harbor. It is not, however, the shadow of Cavour that guides the protest, but the long history of libertarian spirit which has characterized this city. A portrait of Livorno is one of continuous rebellion, despite setbacks and divisions, the city has largely remained anti-fascist, with vibrant collaborative resistance among communists, socialists, and anarchists, something quite rare in today’s ever weakening and divided, politically correct Left. Livorno pays homage to historical memory by embracing causes outside of its confines. It celebrates anything that sustains the dignity of life and rebels against anything that degrades it. It has consistently sustained a compassionate stand on Palestine.

The demonstration slowly progresses along Scali Manzoni road. Small white boats dot the canal line. The speaker begins her litany for Palestine and against the West that has abandoned it. University students with tiny loudspeakers initiate the chant with “Free! Free! Palestine!” Banners and Palestinian flags waver in the air. An association of elderly people holds a slogan that says: “Un altro mondo è possible” (Another world is possible). I am reminded of the words of the Indian writer and activist Arundhati Roy in one of her famous anti-war speeches: “The corporate revolution will collapse if we refuse to buy what they are selling—their ideas, their version of history, their wars, their weapons, their notion of inevitability…Another world is not only possible, she is on her way. On a quiet day, I can hear her breathing.”

But today is not a quiet day. While marching I hear a lady talk to her partner: “I’ve heard about this Jewish author who’s written a lot about Palestine, maybe we can go to the bookstore later.” I want to turn towards the lady and say: “It’s Norman Finkelstein, the Jewish author, probably the most important scholar on the Israel-Palestine conflict there is.”

What distinguishes Palestinian demonstration is the participation by people of all ages and backgrounds. I’ve seen entire families, children and grandparents, walk shoulder to shoulder with students. Here there is a little girl of about five marching carefree with her baby brother on a stroller with their young parents. I find street demonstration like this significant and indispensable for it moves the discourse of politics from the centre of power to the periphery, to communities. It also elaborates and affirms the street as a place for common inheritance of political engagement and creative expression. The street as the alternative setting to the undemocratic and exclusive tendencies of parliaments. The street supplies the foundation for community solidarity, creative resistance, political awareness, and collective possibility. The street summons conviction, inclusion, and continuity.

A brief stop over the bridge of Via Enrico Cialdini. I take a moment to take photographs and observe the snake-like procession of the march, amazed by the breathtaking number of protestors today. Beyond the bridge on the left is the old ship yard with several cranes raised towards the sky. The sun has never been so dazzling, the sea calm. And despite the traffic we have caused not one vehicle is sounding the horn. Everyone seems to be part of this immense conspiracy. The entire scene—the people, the vehicles, the sun, the sea, the flags—is movingly and unforgettably panoramic.

Along Via della Cinta Esterna at my right are blocks of working class apartment buildings. Some windows and balconies are decorated with Palestinian flags. Some inhabitants sneak through the windows to show their support by waving their arms and applauding the march. On the left is the gasoline station Eni—one of the main fuel suppliers to Israel’s war machine. As we march, at our right rises the old rampart of the old city—a long brick and earthwork wall looming over the road, the demonstrators erupted into singing the legendary folksong of the Italian Resistance, Bella Ciao. The spirit of the protest quickens. The collective singing voice rises into a triumphant pitch with tragic undertone. The song throbs with the gravity of emotions connected to the country’s history: the courage and sacrifice of the resistance fighters during WWII, the defeat of fascism, the hopeful beginning after the war, the betrayed ideals of the resistance, and the reemergence of fascism as the main political ideology in the country. No better reading of Italy’s history than through the song Bella Ciao. It is the soundtrack of those who fight and defeated but not destroyed.

As we march on we pass by a wall with a huge colorful graffiti that says,

Through such storms

Against such tides

Towards new shores

How fitting it is to find these lines in this rebellious city! Something prophetic about them that history quickens back into consciousness. I stop and gaze at the wall mesmerized, at the same time saddened by the fatalistic consequences of protesting for Palestine. We have seen the totalitarian type of suppression against student movements across the U.S. and Europe. The Nazi-like brutality of Italian, German, Dutch police against street demonstrators. Since the onset of the Israeli genocide, student movements have become the backbone of worldwide protest for Palestine. The American journalist Chris Hedges writes:

“Student protesters across the country exhibit a moral and physical courage — many are facing suspension and expulsion — that shames every major institution in the country. They are dangerous not because they disrupt campus life or engage in attacks on Jewish students —  many of those protesting are Jewish — but because they expose the abject failure by the ruling elites and their institutions to halt genocide, the crime of crimes. These students watch, like most of us, Israel’s live-streamed slaughter of the Palestinian people. But unlike most of us, they act. Their voices and protests are a potent counterpoint to the moral bankruptcy that surrounds them.

“Not one university president has denounced Israel’s destruction of every university in Gaza. Not one university president has called for an immediate and unconditional ceasefire. Not one university president has used the words “apartheid” or “genocide.” Not one university president has called for sanctions and divestment from Israel.” (revolt-in-the-universities)

Many of these student movements have embraced the struggle of Palestine as their own moral compass. Their sense of bitterness and anger stem from the frustrations of their generation troubled with inequality, racial profiling, student debt, police crackdowns, environmental disasters, political hypocrisy and cowardice, spiritual bankruptcy in the universities, and an absence of meaning and opportunity in the future. They see Palestine as the mirror of their own helplessness and struggle. Their deeply-moving commitment have many of them faced suspensions, arrests, detentions, while foreign students have faced deportations, and campuses infiltrated and spied on.

After the long song-filled march we finally arrive at the commercial port. As expected a swarm of police force and police vans block the entrance gate to the port. Behind the swell of protest is a long line of tourists buses and vehicles trapped in the middle of the road. Some curious tourists get off the bus to see what the hell is going on. The speaker’s voice turns fierce without any hint of tiredness. Her words are angry, damning, despairing: a voice of a university student who has nothing and everything to lose. Her voice carries the devastating irony of the Western world she lives in: “The West loves to sermon the world about democracy and human rights, yet we keep sending arms to the most bellicose country in the world, Israel.” Italy is the third biggest exporter of arms to Israel after the U.S. and Germany.

III

Sunset

A month ago the Palestinian photojournalist Fatma Hassouna was killed alongside ten members of her family in one of the daily bombings in Gaza (as I write this an Israeli airstrike has killed more than a hundred people living in miserable makeshift tents in Sanabil Camp in Khan Younis). Fatma’s last photographs are a collection of sunset in Gaza. I am on the train returning to Lucca, it is sunset. A few meters away from the neighboring railtracks close to the woods, I glimpse a family of wild boar rummaging through the bushy thickets. The passing view of the mother boar and her piglets grips me with a burning tenderness for the world. The last gleams of light cling hopelessly to the tired sky just as in the photographs of Fatma. Darkness is gathering once again. Beneath one of her photographs Fatma writes: “Between the steps of the lost and the tears of those welcoming them, the road tells a story of unbreakable resilience.” I clasp the words of Fatma like a tropical fruit and bite into their sweetness and sorrow. This morning I wrote the line: Words and sky combine in perfect clarity. May the heart endure.