I hardly ever spoke of being stalked. Why? Because it sounds like you’re full of yourself, conceited, and unbearable to those listening. Probably even as someone who isn’t telling the truth. “I have stalkers - it’s so scary,” doesn’t garner the sympathy the victims of stalking think it does.

When I told some people, they thought it was flattering. “Wow, I can’t imagine having a stalker.” Maybe if I hadn’t been stalked myself, I would think that way, too. But the experience will likely change your mind. Nothing feels more violating than someone invading your most basic sense of autonomy, especially when that person is a stranger, and nothing, paradoxically, will make you feel more alone.

As male loneliness is on the rise (not to fall on the usual cliché, but this issue has not been addressed and is instead being normalized), stalking is certainly getting worse. I’m not saying female stalkers don’t exist. A woman who is determined to discover whether her man is cheating is probably more effective than a CIA agent at discovering the truth, but by nature, women tend to engage in covert stalking out of pride. They (usually) don’t engage in stalking to hunt a man down and force him to be with her, because women tend to enjoy being pursued.

Regardless of who decides to stalk, when you’re on the receiving end, it makes you feel deeply unprotected, and it activates your alertness as if you were alone in a forest in the dark, hearing growling noises. If you think about it, in nature, predators stalk their prey before attacking them, waiting for them to be isolated and off guard to pounce.

However, modern society often conflates stalking with romantic interest or even passion, and this hurts those victims. Being pursued, sometimes intensely, in a relationship isn’t the same as stalking. If your boyfriend starts ringing your doorbell non-stop (this happened) after an argument, it doesn’t constitute stalking to me, so long as there’s no violence involved. I would never have dreamed of reporting these cases; in fact, I tried to calm the situation. Whenever I see someone I care about “lose it”, I feel empathy and a sense of responsibility. Likewise, if you’ve done something like this yourself, while not ideal and probably a sign of a not-so-healthy relationship, it doesn’t constitute stalking because it’s devoid of the basic requirement that stalking entails - violating someone’s freedom of choice. Modern society has destroyed romance for failing to make this basic distinction. Now men are afraid to show interest in a woman without fearing the label “creep”.

I’ve never reported a stalker or anyone to the authorities, including for sexual assault, even though I could have. The reason is because of how I was raised; I try to deal with issues myself as much as I can because I thought my issues were not that important. But in retrospect, that was a risk that I would strongly discourage anyone from taking. A stalker can turn your life upside down quickly.

TV series like You have romanticized a phenomenon that is relatively modern in nature, borne out of a sense of male alienation from the advances of technology. Desiring to feel connected to someone you barely even know, whom you’ve idealized virtually, so much that you get angry if they don’t reciprocate, and genuinely want to harm them for it, is not something that took place for most of human history, if not for some outcasts. These outcasts have multiplied and intensified because they can access your profile instantaneously; they create a fantasy of who you are through this online prism, and if you’re not careful enough, they can track you down to make their fantasy a reality.

My first experiences with stalking were mundane: guys on the internet messaging me in admiration and then getting upset because I happened to post something they disagreed with, as if they owned my opinions. This is why I don’t view most right-wing online women favorably - I’m referring to those who post viral - “this is what women should do to make men happy” - content, because, for the most part, they create propaganda for the male gaze as a way to attract a companion. They would hardly say anything that might risk offending men's opinions, and, as such, they lack integrity or originality. This causes men to lash out when they feel they don’t have control over the female mind. And I’m particularly allergic to control, so much that when I was a child, my father would tell me not to put my hand on the fire or I would get hurt, and I would put my hand on the fire on purpose. Of course, this kind of provocation infuriates a stalker who feels they have a monopoly over your life.

I would easily block these men as soon as they started insulting me for the crime of not sharing their opinions. This was not hard to deal with. One time, however, I was in a relationship with an influential political figure I’d rather not mention here, and despite keeping a private profile, I would receive different kinds of messages from accounts that thought they knew what our relationship was about. This was harmless, though still annoying, until someone sent him a photo of a woman who looked like me with another man in bed, kissing, saying: “Your girlfriend with my friend.” He believed I was cheating on him, despite my best efforts to convince him otherwise. I had attended the police station alone to understand what I could do because, in this case, my relationship was at stake. He eventually did believe me, but at that point, the trust on my side was broken: He left me alone when I was falsely accused of cheating by an unknown account online. I did not feel protected by him, and our relationship suffered irreparably because of it. To this day, I sometimes think I should have been more understanding. But that’s how online obsession over internet personalities affects your life, which is why I believe only one of the two in a couple should have a public profile.

The first time real, more nefarious stalking occurred was after this, however, when I was going through a challenging moment in my life, and I sometimes reflect on how that attracted dark forces, with actual, predatory stalkers. I believe in energetic pulses. I was about to move to America for a fellowship prize in journalism when I received the first threatening email. A list of nudes to send him, some image of me in deep-fake porn, and blackmailing me to release them, and that he knew where my family lived if I didn’t send them to him. I didn’t feel threatened because the photos he had of me were fake, but it definitely made me feel the first sense of disconcertment, though one of my friends said I should laugh about it. The list of requested nudes was particularly odd. One from the front, one from the side, and one from behind (not particularly artistic). I did not answer; he sent me another deadline via Instagram with an anonymous account. Eventually, I posted on my social media that I would report him to the FBI. That made him stop. I would like to make clear to anyone going through something like this: what stopped him was the idea that he could be found by the authorities. It was me reacting to shut him down, not ignoring him. This is what you should do if you ever receive an email of this sort (obscenities redacted):

Only a few weeks later, another man (I don’t think it was the same one, only because of his writing style) started sending me romantic poems on Instagram, but he was mostly following my Twitter. I know because he would download and read every book, every philosopher I would post about, and share his thoughts as if we were having a conversation. His obsession certainly wasn’t initially physical; it was mostly psychological. But men don’t easily separate these realms. His poems turned from romantic to sexual, telling me he wanted to “drip sweat on your beautiful face”. He sent me a video asking me to marry him. I noticed how handsome this young man was and asked myself how he could turn out this way. But mostly, I could see how deranged he was through his stare. This was the first time I felt more unsettled. I still have the video, but I prefer not to share it out of decency. He was, to put it bluntly, insane. There was no self-awareness in his behavior. I never accepted his chat request, just continued to ignore it while monitoring, hoping I would tire him out by never responding. That was a mistake.

When I landed in New York during lockdown, he booked his flight ticket from Germany. At the time, I kept a screenshot of his ticket so I would have his name in case something more serious happened. But managing a new job at a large newspaper and the responsibilities of moving to a new country, I did not have the time or energy to report him. Because of the lockdown, he was stuck in Mexico for a few weeks in quarantine before he could reach New York, so that gave me more time. He would quite strangely report to me his sexual experiences with other women in Mexico. When he landed, I had posted a story of mass at St Peter’s Cathedral, not thinking about him seeing it. He said he was rushing over to see me. That’s when I ran away from the place and stopped posting my location. That same night, he asked me to meet at a designated location. Of course, I never once accepted his chat request, I certainly wouldn’t agree to meet him. That’s when I believe he realized this romance was the fruit of his imagination, and he panicked. He started telling me that I led him on, that he couldn’t breathe, and that he wanted to die… I’m quite sensitive, so this reaction affected me; I felt responsible for his life. He sent other obscenities, and that’s when I decided to block. He disappeared, and I wondered what happened to him. As crazy as it sounds, I felt guilt.

In the same space of time, I would go to mass in Manhattan close to my apartment. As I mentioned, this all happened in the span of a few months, when I was not in a relationship, and when I was going through an incrementally more challenging and particularly hurtful time with a side of my family over an inheritance they deprived me of when one of my beloved grandparents died. I still had close relationships with other family members unrelated to that grandparent, but didn’t think about telling them about this, as my life was so hectic that this was barely a priority of mine. Almost as if the Universe conspires against you when you’re most vulnerable, and that’s when you attract the more aggressive forces: Nature abhors a vacuum.

I was going to mass on a Sunday, which would give me the only respite I could feel. I came back home once and was in the backyard of my building, outside, in a public square. This young man came up to me. “Were you at mass earlier? What a coincidence!” I said, “Yes.” We started talking. I was naive, and more than anything, I was alone in a new city during lockdown, feeling shut down by the people who were meant to protect me the most, so the kindness of strangers didn’t immediately raise suspicions and, instead, made me feel a sense of warmth. I was wounded at the time, almost like they could sense it. This wasn’t someone who knew me from the internet, but a random stranger from mass. I welcomed the conversation, but I did not have a romantic interest in him, nor did I lead him on (as far as I’m aware). I went back home thinking he was being nice and that maybe I had found a new friend.

I returned to mass the week after and planned a coffee with this girl who worked for a think tank (I was looking to make new friends). During mass, I could feel him staring, but I ignored him. I went to the bathroom afterwards, and I remember he followed me there and waited outside. That’s when I gave him the first signal to leave me alone; somehow, his physical proximity made me react more abruptly. I changed my mass time from late in the evening to early in the morning so I wouldn’t see him. But there he was, while I was working towards the Church at 7 am. At the traffic light, he turned around and said, “Hello.”

I returned home and saw him outside my apartment building. I came back from the other side, hoping he wouldn’t see me enter the building. However, he saw me walking in just a few seconds before and ran after me, but I managed to get in first and close the door. Thankfully, the building was large, in central Manhattan, with men working in the lobby who looked like security guards. That’s when I told the doormen at the building, and they told me they would keep an eye out for him. I never saw him again.

I could have told all this to my boss at work; this seems logical, but because this was an editor of a major newspaper, I didn’t want to raise a “nuisance” for him. I felt embarrassed. I had met with him and his new wife for a coffee only a few weeks prior, and I sensed his wife wasn’t keen on me, so I didn’t think it was wise to ask him for help with something like this.

However, the reason for never reporting these incidents is deeper: growing up, I was always told that something was inherently wrong with me. I never felt safe telling my family about an issue, because I remember I would be told that the fault was mine. I internalized that and reacted by dealing with issues by myself.

I barely used social media for a while as a coping mechanism. The messages continued, but these darker stalkers disappeared as soon as I found a personal haven again. When you’re more protected, the forces around you can sense that and the bigger threats subside. At least, this is what happened to me.

A couple of years ago, during another vulnerable moment as I was pursuing a legal case with that part of my family for the inheritance dispute, and I was particularly isolated, another stalker appeared with the same pattern. Idealization, telling me how much I had inspired him to change his life, but this quickly turned into extreme vitriol for the sin of not reciprocating his interest or for expressing political views that contradicted his. The obsession culminated in various blocks on my part, only for him to create new accounts. He threatened to violate me through “total humiliation”. The recent posts are:

When my art academy teacher responded, he threatened him too:

It makes me reflect on how, as women, we should try to avoid being alone. There are many like him, but there are also many good men who can protect you.

At the time, I thought the fault was mine. Did I post something too controversial? Is that photo crossing the line? Why am I posting this? As much as this may seem hard to fathom, many women feel uncomfortable reporting these issues publicly because they feel responsible. They are conditioned into thinking they are to blame for provoking male reactions. Often, this conditioning comes from our own mothers, so I don’t think men are entirely to blame.

It isn’t flattering, and it isn’t ego-centric. I won’t look back one day and think, “I wish I had more stalkers. I miss them.” It elicits the opposite of the feeling of safety from true love: fear. One piece of advice I would give: Fighting back is worth it. Reporting them is enough to give them pause. Threatening a report to the authorities will make someone think twice. Don’t let shame silence you; It’s not your fault, and don’t act as prey because that is when you will be attacked the most. Become the predator, and they will hopefully stop. Nothing is more threatening to those seeking to harm you than your courage.

However, there’s another element to this story. These men are not outliers; they are becoming the norm. They live vicariously through the internet, and they feel an energetic pulse to make their dreams come true because their virtual life doesn’t provide them with any companionship. As a result, they track down the woman they’ve idealized in their minds through social media. Isolated men are dangerous because their primary needs aren’t being met, and because of their capacity for violence when that takes place. This requires more long-term thinking in terms of how to bridge the gap of male loneliness (and loneliness in general) in modern society, and instead of stalking women, making use of that untapped potential to change the status quo.

If you enjoy my writing, you can subscribe to my magazine, Alata. I also make paintings on Painting Life. This page is for personal posts.

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Some of you have followed me since the beginning of my journey as a journalist.

I will not write a tiresome record of my resumé, if you’re interested in more details on my background, you can find them here. What I feel is important to tell you is why I’m creating a new magazine called Alata.

I set out these accomplishments, such as they are, not to impress you or to congratulate myself but to demonstrate that I was being primed to be an establishment agent.

I was born and raised in Milan, Italy, and earned my graduate and postgraduate degrees in some of the ‘best-ranked’ political science and philosophy universities in the world. I undertook a training program in journalism in which I was one of two students to receive a Gold Standard with a 100% score in shorthand coding. I was interviewing for a future job at the World Bank while preparing to undertake my second postgraduate degree at the LSE in philosophy of science.

I was making my way in the world with the 'right' mindset. My parents were proud to call me their daughter, especially since I was considered a nightmare by them and my teachers in my teenage years. I used to purposefully fail in school. But I was only proud of myself then in a superficial sense.

I felt something was profoundly wrong in my society. But the answers to the questions of how or why eluded me. I only knew that our environment was hostile to us. I did not use social media, so I could not explore this feeling with other like-minded individuals. My life was the same one I was living in real time. Often, those thoughts caused an agonizing sense of loneliness.

As my first job, I moved to the Arab world as a journalist, as I was curious about the issue of Islam gaining controversy in Europe. I was thrust into a new dimension, and my utopian, cosmopolitan views were quickly shattered, although my dreams of a better future for my people never changed. What was meant to be a brief internship turned into moving to a Muslim country for a year. My life was no longer the linear one defined for me by familial and societal expectations. Still, despite its chaotic nature, for some peculiar reason, it felt perfectly right. If only because I felt alive.

I had been rebellious since my teenage years, but suddenly, my rebellion assumed form; a proper direction.

I worked as a journalist for various Arab newspapers, sometimes fearing for my safety, reporting on taboo issues. My first interview was with an ex-Guantanamo Bay detainee accused of terrorism who refused to shake my hand and, as I later found out, lied throughout the entire interview. I reported on unspoken issues like the lives of persecuted Christian minorities, forged female virginity tests, and the beginning of the migratory crisis into Europe. I quickly discovered the deceit behind trusted institutions. Ironically, I wrote an exposé on the World Bank as my first investigative piece. I was fired by the former information minister of an Arab country, who was at this point editor of one of the newspaper I was working for, because he believed my articles were too controversial. But I also found a moving genuineness in the citizens I spoke to, who were powerless in front of these systems.

I returned to Milan at the age of 24. I found myself changed. I had a new-found sense of purpose, and God was rewarding me for it. I could have become a foreign correspondent from dangerous zones across the world. I enjoyed the adrenaline. But I realized that was part of the malaise of my society. Having no purpose of our own, journalists my age would venture overseas to marry causes that did not belong to them. Instead, the contrast from a Muslim society to a European one awakened me: we needed to regain the sense of who we were. I abstracted myself almost entirely from the banal and vulgar bourgeois culture I had grown up with, which had always irritated me. Now I knew why.

From working for a destitute newspaper that refused to pay its employees and pitching dozens of articles with no replies, editors suddenly contacted me on social media, asking me to write for them. Authenticity and courage repay more than credentials. I was unleashed, no longer catering to expectations or caged by formality.

But that part of me seeking external validation and acceptance remained present. I was free, but only partially.

I was working for Italian newspapers while undertaking the state exam, desperate to receive the “highest diploma” from the Italian government to practice as a journalist, which I achieved. Simultaneously, I freelanced for American and English newspapers and magazines, writing in-depth features on politics, war, and religion. These were exciting times, reporting on fringe neofascists in Italy, traveling often to DC to get to know other like-minded American journalists, and interviewing Steve Bannon in Rome on his new populist vision. Visiting Hong Kong with the Infowars team and being hit by a brick and a rubber bullet to report on the cause of those rioting against China’s totalitarianism, to show the reality of a growing Chinese influence in the West, and because I had studied at The University of Hong Kong as part of my undergraduate degree.

During the beginning of the Covid lockdown, I applied for and won a fellowship to work at The Wall Street Journal Editorial Page. During this time, I had also been asked to work for Italian intelligence, something I kept as secret until I decided that such a controlling existence was not meant for me. I moved to New York, in what was the most challenging period of my life, which I will one day detail for my followers, if only so it may help them should they be able to relate to my experience. From the outside, I had won a shiny prize for excellence in journalism; I was ‘winning’, but I felt like I was dying on the inside. While I’m grateful for the experience and learned from the professionals I worked with, I felt the weight of upholding my own integrity, and another false idol of prestige was abruptly destroyed before my eyes.

I was lost. I returned to Milan disillusioned with journalism after my fellowship during Covid. I left it behind to join an art school, not even a renowned one - it had just opened a year prior. But I loved the spontaneous nature of it, which one can only find in new projects. My life was beginning to take an even less linear direction. My friends would ask me, painting? You’ve have had a rewarding career in journalism, why don’t you return to what you were successful at doing? But I needed to leave that past behind. My accomplishments felt hollow; they were only framed in my studio to console my ego. I wanted to focus on the one thing that I had complete control over: my art. I was always a fighter, but by this point I was tired of fighting. I wanted to start creating.

Nonetheless, I felt a divine calling recently that my dream of founding a media page, which at this point had all but disappeared, now needed to come to fruition. They say that you need to almost die to be be able to shed your old skin and be reborn. I could no longer escape the realities of the world hiding behind a canvas, I needed to shape it in whatever way I could. What was the point of those failures, if not to bring something even greater into fruition with the lessons I had learned along the way? To be of service to others? Virgil said that the noblest motive is the public good.

I asked myself, are you not strong enough to find out whether this is your fate?

My future in painting is one I hold dear, too. It has another purpose. I regret absolutely nothing about my choices; in fact, joining an art academy was necessary to fulfill my creative aspirations, which had hitherto been ignored. If you, as a reader, feel the same way, I encourage you to join whatever creative pursuit is of your interest. But I could not turn a blind eye to the world of media that shaped so much of my identity, and more importantly, that has the potential to awaken us in such profound, transformative ways.

This magazine is an apotheosis of this journey. Now, I feel truly free, prepared for what will come. When intention is unshackled from the burden of external opinion, it is based on sincerity. Everything you will find in this magazine is authentic, from the literary contributions to the creative images behind it. Our motivation is pure, and our loyalty is with our readers. We will surely make mistakes along the way, we intend to learn by the trial of fire. There is no other way.

This project is for you, for those looking to awaken the society we inhabit and shape a new future for it: our society - Western society. If you’re interested, subscribe, and I will send you an email from the magazine detailing its aim…

Here.

For my Italian followers, here.

I signed up for a quarantine on an abandoned, private island in the Mediterranean with painters, illustrators, gallerists, and aspiring artists without phones or connection to the outside world. I wasn’t sure what to expect. The course was called Qvarantine Events; I found it online after seeing one of my favorite painters participate in it as a mentor. Its bold, alternative aesthetic instantly drew me. This wasn’t a course for abstract, conceptual art. Neither was it a nostalgic attempt to return to the past. It was a unique project to forge the figurative artists of the future. It is curated; one needs to apply through a rigorous process.

Part of its value is secrecy. You’re not allowed to mention details about what happened to allow the incognito element for future participants. Does this sound like a cult? Yes. Do the organizers care what others think? No. They’re confident in their intention.

When we set foot on the island, we were given rings, jugs, and diaries with the organization's symbol. The island is in Menorca. One might think—a mellow holiday on the beach with a canvas? Those who prepared for such an experience were met with an abrupt realization. It was intense, mystical, daunting, and challenging. Yet, at the same time, transformative. We were shaken to the core. The island has a sinister, powerful energy. It felt like Middle Earth; not coincidentally, the course is described as a “purgatory for artists.”

I wasn’t aware it was a literal quarantine island from the 19^th century. Now abandoned as a relic, it is owned by the Spanish government and rented privately. When we arrived, the gate said “Lazareto,” inspired by the first quarantined islands created in Europe against the plague and cholera outbreaks, where the sick were sent, often never to return. It was uninhabited, composed of watchtowers, prisons, rooms, and warehouses, where the ill were strictly divided to avoid infecting one another. Criminals were often sent to the island to become servants of the sick as punishment. Now, it was free; taken over by creative artists. Nude models posed with gas masks under trees. A certain irony was obvious to many of us.

What struck me most was seeing where the inmates were once kept. One large panopticon, where a small watchtower was surrounded by circular cages, in which a priest would speak to the sick, imprisoned individuals. This was the panopticon first envisioned by Jeremy Bentham, the Enlightenment philosopher I studied at University. Later critiqued aptly by Michel Foucault as the engineer of a control system. After all, does isolating individuals help them overcome their disease? Hardly so. The energy of despair transpired through the metal barricades. I had dedicated my master’s thesis to critiquing a structure that was now staring at me. I was no longer writing about it on paper; I could feel its energy penetrate my bones.

Other cages were meant for loved ones paying their final goodbyes. Two layers of gates were built with a middle space filled with vinegar to avoid infecting the visitors. I imagined the scenes. I felt an urgency to subtract myself from them. Yet my usual distraction - my phone - was missing, as it was strictly prohibited. So, I often ventured alone on this remote island. A quiet, relaxing solitude in the autumn chills next to the sea. But then, I would need to find my peers again to fill in a sense of emptiness from the abandoned edifices.

There were about eighty of us. I almost instantly became friends with two girls from northern Italy. We formed our tribe. Something about not having phones compelled people to speak to one another. It made us reflect on the fact that this was what real life consisted of: awkward, spontaneous conversations ending in lasting connections. We weren’t taking a break from our daily lives; we were living life as it was meant to be before screens filled our sense of inadequacy—a necessary sentiment of discomfort that can lead to the most beautiful surprises.

We had incredible artists who gave us, in turn, a speech every morning: Edward Povey, Henrik Uldalen, and Phil Hale were the ones I had selected to be my private mentors. But they weren’t teaching us their method during their speeches. Their lectures were more profound. They told us their life stories, often confessing delicate, sometimes violent, personal struggles they used for their art in a place they knew was safe to talk about because it was confined. The common denominator I observed was their rage, triggered by their sensitive souls – the overwhelming emotions that can make for exceptional artists. A feeling of strength compensated by an equal, opposing sense of fragility. But that overload of energy was harnessed to create. I told myself I should do the same.

Here are some of my favorite quotes from the mentors I chose. Their paintings below:

“I always had the most exquisite love affairs; on the treadmill of fears I was longing for angels and purity of heart.” Edward Povey

“I don’t care what my children decide to study in school - I only care that they become themselves.” Phil Hale

“After the death of a person I loved, I told myself I would never suffer that way again. I succeeded. I could no longer feel anything. That is when I realised that a life without emotions is not worth living.” Henrik Uldalen

I used the diary the organization gave me to report the moments, events, and dialogues I wanted to cherish. Diaries, in my view, shouldn’t be used to document every moment of our day but to write down what is meaningful to us. To absorb the instances that teach us the most valuable lessons, to increase the reverberations of their impact.

Since I can’t spoil the experience for future visitors, I will say this much: we held intense art laboratories during the day. Sometimes, I could barely participate in them because they aimed to break our conventional wisdom. I felt provoked. I was overpowered by what they were trying to bring out in us: not a work of art - we could do that in our studios and academies at home. Their purpose was to force us, though of our own free will, to listen to our intuition—to strip away the barriers that inhibit us from fulfilling our creative potential. To not give us room to think. Somewhere in between discipline and surrender, one finds the catalyst.

As for the photo with torch flames under a full moon, and the other videos you might have seen on social media with ancient music and dances, I cannot disclose the details.

I can say that the island oscillated between the Apollonian and the Dionysian. We had strict, disciplined hours dedicated to our art followed by wild events.

Our one-on-one mentorships with the artists allowed us to develop personal connections. I won’t say which mentor said what because these were private conversations, but one of them made me cry. He said, “Your eyes make me fearful.” I laughed to lighten things - I felt embarrassed, to some degree. I didn’t want to make him feel fearful. I wanted him to trust me. He responded, “It’s not funny.” A moment of solemnity before tearing through my psyche with personal questions intended to release my most compartmentalized emotions. Another one said that I should “let loose that part of my brain that says things should be done a certain way”. I’m quite attached to outcomes, which I now understand is not always good, as it inhibits us from enjoying the process. Lastly, one of the painters told me that a girl on the course had a “better scholastic skill” than mine but that she was just a good student and that I was more of a problem. He meant it in a good way. That was the first time I was complimented for such a trait.

It felt that fate was fulfilling its course; as I became interested in the ancient Pagan faiths of my ancestors, I was thrust into an environment where I experienced their ritualistic traditions. One night at a bonfire, I spoke to a martial artist who was one of our painting models. He told me he saw a vision of Athena, the goddess of wisdom, war, and handicrafts, and became increasingly interested in Greek mythology. It was a strange coincidence, but I don’t believe coincidences exist.

I understood about humanity through this experience that cults and tribes can be our natural state. Not in a censorious way. Rather, in a way that enhances our freedom by making us feel emboldened to give life to our creativity with those who share our passion.

I now have a clear direction for my art, which I am thrilled to share with you. They accomplished their mission to unlock the artist within me, so if you’re interested, I encourage you to look into this course. My friends and I discussed how it triggered an existential crisis in us in the best way.

When I arrived at San Vittore’s prison in Milan, during a stereotypical foggy and grey winter day in the city, medieval gates covered in studs stood in front of me. The guards opened the gates and I walked through tall, mighty Roman columns that led to the main room. The guards were mostly southern Italian men with striking facial features and statuesque physiques. My colleague turned around and said to me, “Do you see how handsome they are?”. Admittedly, it seemed like we were entering a casting set for male models, rather than a prison. Young southern Italians often look for state-funded jobs in the north of Italy, as there are hardly other vacancies available to them in the south, an area afflicted by corruption and unemployment.

The entrance of the prison gave a feeling of solemness, engulfed by darkness. It was cloaked in religious symbolism against a backdrop of concrete, decaying walls. One of the guards stood at the entrance against the wall, with a patriotic prayer inscribed in a plaque above him, meant to motivate the officers to fulfil their duties with criminals. It said:

“From the grey prisons, where humanity that has violated the laws of men atones for its sins, we want, O Lord, that our spirit, overcome every barrier, comes closer to You to receive faith and constancy in the fulfilment of duty. Inspire us, O mother of God, mercy for those who suffer so that the fraternal feeling and the need for duty are reconciled in us. Give us, O Saint Basilides, the strength so that our commitment to serving society in the name of God and our homeland will never weaken. Bless, O Lord, our homeland, our departments, our families and the brothers entrusted to us. This we ask of you, O Lord!”

Our phones were confiscated. After the metal detector, there was a large crucifix made of wood that welcomed the second entrance. We walked through different gates with the guards, who held a multitude of keys, until we reached the main roundabout, surrounded by the corridors where the prison cells were kept. The roundabout was ancient, picturesque, and divine, with a simultaneous feeling of mystical dread and gloom. The Catholic iconography was a potent expression of God’s might, with large, ceramic statues of Jesus and the Virgin Mary, a ceiling with a net to avoid the ancient pieces from the affresco on the dome falling down on those crossing. The corridors where the prisoners were kept had signs that said “Raggio I, Raggio II, Raggio III, Raggio IV, Raggio V”, which stood for “Ray” with an ancient Roman numeral, meant to divide the halls opening like rays of light from the roundabout.

We crossed one of the rays through the prison cells to reach the classroom. The hall was cloudy, with an overwhelming smell of tobacco. Many of the prisoners smoke inside the corridors. While we were walking through the ray where the inmates lived, many of them stared at us. Some of them roamed freely through the hall, others were locked inside their cells with their hands holding the gates. They weren’t accustomed to seeing groups of strangers crossing by. Inside the cells, as many as seven inmates were sometimes crammed together in bunkbeds. Prisons in Milan are experiencing an overload of inmates, without enough cells for them, or guards to maintain security. During lockdown, they organised a revolt because they, too, suffered from the claustrophobic isolation, without visits or activities.

I have long wanted to volunteer in prisons. I’ve always been interested in helping those who are at the margins of society; the outcasts. In my journalistic work, I am fascinated by extremists of every kind. I want to understand their story: what brought them to where they are, and how their minds function. But Italy’s bureaucratic system makes volunteering for individuals in prisons challenging. They’d rather prioritise institutions that can guarantee security. So, when the arts academy that I work with offered to work in prisons, I was elated. The plan was to teach the prisoners how to paint with oil. The academy chose a sample of one of the statues by Gian Lorenzo Bernini, a 16^th century sculptor, to paint. At the end of the course, their paintings, along with our own from the academy, would be presented in the prison as an exhibition for an event organised by the theatre La Scala, the most prominent theatre in Milan, which would showcase one of their operas with a projector inside the prison roundabout as a gesture of charity. 

The prisoners were eager to learn how to paint. To fix their mind on something other than their jail cells and the quarrels and power struggles they contend with on a daily basis. Painting with oil is the hardest approach to painting, and the most rewarding. The most impactful and detailed Renaissance paintings were made with oil. Many of the prisoners said that they lost track of time, because they entered a meditative state while trying to paint the image – indeed, it’s the feeling that makes painting so fulfilling to me, too.

One of them had a swastika tattooed on his hand, another had a scar on his mouth like the Joker, another had tattoos on his face. It took a few days for them to open up to us. Each had a story to tell, though each seemed to minimise it, as if they were trying to impress us. Except for one, who was proud to tell me he had served 20 years, and would continue working for an organised crime group in Italy in the south once he left, because he has to honour his bloodline, and because he has no other choice. Organised crime groups, like the mafia, don’t let you leave once you make a vow, because leaving would imply you could become an informant, and informants get killed. He had tear drops tattooed under his eyes, which I knew signified the people he had killed. He confirmed that to me.

Besides him, the other prisoners were eager to show that they wanted to lead a different path. One of them was a 26-year-old man from a small city in Lombardy. He had blonde, thick hair, piercing blue eyes, strong facial features, and tattoos on his face and neck, some for his lovers. He was sharp. Despite our small age difference, he made me reflect on how I would feel if I were his mother and saw my son robbing himself of his youth. Of a potential great destiny. He started organising robberies when he was just a teenager. He had been arrested in Italy, escaped to Africa, impregnated a young woman in a village, ended up in a prison in Africa too, and returned to Milan just to be arrested again. He said he would hide tens of thousands worth of cash in his garden after his robberies. He had spent 10 years of his life in and out of jail, and said to me, “I don’t want to live like this anymore, we all make mistakes. I have my life ahead of me, I want to live beyond the prospect of a jail cell.”

Working as a woman in a male prison can be compromising. Indeed, male prisoners often approach you. One of them asked me to escape with him to another country once he left the prison. He was Cuban, with a clean, even innocent face; he was only 21 years old. Another asked my colleague for her email. While she gave it to him, I urged her not to respond to his emails. It’s too much of a liability for females to become a support system for male prisoners outside our volunteer function. If we had been men, I would have welcomed the possibility. But we were young women, and the erotic male drive, currently suppressed and simultaneously compounded, couldn’t escape us.

We asked them about their visits, and most said that only their families, wives or girlfriends would make the effort, and the most depressing prospect for them was waiting for their weekly visit and sometimes seeing no one arrive to fill the empty chairs staring at them across the room. Oscar Wilde wrote about prisons, “But we who live in prison, and in whose lives there is no event but sorrow, have to measure time by throbs of pain, and the record of bitter moments. We have nothing else to think of.” I could sense this slow, painful passing of time while working with these inmates. But I could also sense their hope.

We were left alone to work with the prisoners in a classroom, without a guard overseeing us and without surveillance cameras. We cleaned the paint brushes together in their bathrooms. This approach was less restrictive than some rules required in mental health facilities in the United States, where patients are surveilled every half hour by staff, and CCTV footage reaches every corner of the building. The religious symbolism was also a feature that was markedly different to many other prisons in the West. It gave a feeling of sanctity and warmth, despite the bleak and tragic circumstances. In contrast, displays of Christianity in many other Western nations are seen as an affront to a sterile version of secularism.  

We also offered painting classes to the guards in the afternoons, many told us that the prisoners inevitably create weapons inside their cells. As officers, they said they can’t always control it because they are under staffed, and because sometimes you need to let them deal with their own hierarchies. But the prison did offer prospects for rehabilitation for inmates: they had therapists, and many volunteer organisations offering to help with their education.

Not least the theatre La Scala, which offered to show their prestigious cultural event of the opera “Don Carlo” as an official event in the prison, held in the religious roundabout at the end of our art course. During the event, one side was dedicated to the guests and the guards. We were all dressed formally. The other side was dedicated to the inmates, who were part of the same room, without handcuffs or restrictions. Many of them greeted us at the event; they were excited to see us. They shook our hand, even gave us two kisses on the check (a customary salute in Italy). I could tell, they wanted to feel a degree of normalcy.

When two of the male prisoners were speaking to me, the young Italian and his Albanian friend, telling me more about their story, the guards told them to walk back to their place. The young Italian had a rosary on his neck, I asked him if he was religious, and he responded “Of course.” He became angry at the guard, responding with a tone, saying that he was just speaking to me. His normal conversation with an outsider was interrupted, brusquely. He couldn’t feel like a normal citizen, because he wasn’t. He was still a criminal who needed to pay for his crimes. He asked me to keep in touch with him by sending him a letter. If I hadn’t been a woman, I would have. But I wanted to respect the boundaries that my role required of me.

Before the opera, we all stood up from our chairs to hear Italy’s national anthem. The projector showed Italian politicians, among other guests at the theatre. It was a moment of unity across the room, and across the country, despite the drastic differences in circumstances. But a tragic suicide occurred in one of the cells during the opera, so the event was quickly interrupted. Though I had already left by that time, I could see the guards frantically running back and forth, so I knew something serious had taken place. We later saw the report on Italy’s state television channel, Rai news, on the suicide.

Many have commented that prisoners do not need help, or support. That they deserve their fate. Indeed, some do. It is perhaps even more arduous to help those who have wronged others, especially for a person like myself, who strongly believes in justice. I struggle with forgiveness for those who have wronged me. But even for myself, when I have wronged others, or my own person. Precisely for this reason, working in prisons taught me about the value of this redeeming virtue. The Lord’s prayer says, “And forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.”

How can we ask for forgiveness from God, if we are not capable of forgiving others, or ourselves? Forgiveness doesn’t deny justice. It releases us from anger and unleashes us from the shackles of guilt. If we seek repentance from God through confession, we must forgive ourselves. If we don’t, we are refusing God’s command. But we must also encourage others to undergo a redeeming path, lest we fall into the trap of hypocrisy. Criminals need to be held in prisons for utilitarian purposes; to protect and to set an example for the rest of civil society. But this does not mean that deontological ethics should be ignored. That inmates should be denied the chance to redemption if they show remorse. Nor does it mean that they do not need help. Rather, the opposte is true. The Bible teaches us a valuable lesson on the sinful needing the most guidance to undergo the path of salvation.

When the Pharisees saw Jesus speaking with tax collectors and sinners in Matthew’s home, they were appalled. They asked Jesus why he would hang out with “lowlifes” of society. According to their morals, no godly figure would develop a relationship with the world’s most despised people. Jesus responded, “It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick. I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance.”

I could have chosen more prestigious or pleasurable events to attend, but working in Milan’s prison taught me an invaluable lesson: of how fortunate I was, and what fortune I could bring to others. Of how redemption is within everyone’s reach, as we are all born as sinners. Those who are led furthest astray, are the hardest to help. For this reason, they are the ones who need it the most.

The aesthetic nature of the experience, combined with the interactions I had, seemed like a caricature of an Italian prison; a movie set for a director with a passion for thrillers. It made me feel like I had entered a purgatory close to the flames of hell. I felt power knowing I could come close to the heat of the flames without being burned by them. I felt fulfillment knowing I could help others escape through art.

This article was first published on Postliberal Order:

Postliberal Order

Based interventions on philosophy, law, theology and the postliberal order.

By The Postliberals

Catholicism is a unified religion. But its religious unity is one which touches a vast array of cultural differences over history, and so we can see the unity of Catholicism precisely through significant differences across the world.

As a native born-and-raised in Italy, yet embedded in Anglo-Saxon culture throughout my graduate and post-graduate studies in London, I’ve witnessed a particular set of differences. In my professional work as a journalist, I’ve witnessed clashes between Italian, American and British cultures which were not always easy to communicate. Having dual Italian and American citizenship (my mother was raised in U.S.), I’m often thrust between these Western worlds, translating the “Anglo-Saxon” mentality to the “Continental”, and vice versa. It’s given me a chance to reflect upon these differences, and what they mean for the future of Western civilization.

Having studied philosophy at university, the conflict in cultural mentality can perhaps best be seen through the Analytic (Anglo-Saxon) versus the Continental (European) schools of thought. The Analytic school focuses on clear, concise, sometimes, rigid logic—making normative arguments and cases with an argument, counter-argument and conclusion — the aim is to say, “Here’s what one ought to do, and here’s why it is right for them to do so.” Examples of this are Anglo-Saxon enlightenment thinkers from John Locke, to Jeremy Bentham and John Stuart Mill. They make a case for a prescribed social, political or economic system that one ought to follow. The latter school of thought, continental philosophy, is concerned with describing and criticizing the world we inhabit; it’s phenomenological in nature, without making normative cases—Michel Foucault, Antonio Gramsci, and Slavoj Zizek are some of the most prominent examples.

The criticism of continental philosophy is that it is too confounding, muddy, lacking a clear argument, with obscure and pretentious language. Analytic philosophy is seen as too concise, poor in language, and aiming for the impossible—making logical sense of a universe that does not provide us with clear-cut answers. The contrast between these worlds can be often seen if one watches Noam Chomsky debate Michel Foucault, or even Jordan Peterson debate Slavoj Zizek. They argue across purposes, belonging to two different metaphysical dimensions.

These modes of thought have both stemmed from, and in turn permeated the respective cultural norms of these societies—but these differences originate not from the unity of Catholicism, but in the very conflict between Catholic versus Protestant theology.

The Sistine chapel, the most impactful work of art in Catholic history, was painted by Michelangelo Buonarroti. The original depictions were of nude figures, which the Pope at the time allowed, and it was only through the reformation that these figures were covered with clothes using paint. In order to defeat Protestantism, the Pope at the time felt that Catholicism needed to adopt a stricter symbology, ironically, by following the premise of their enemies; puritanism. The Renaissance period in Italy, when the Sistine chapel was built, called upon Pagan symbology and imagery, while still being funded by the Catholic church: even Michelangelo’s depiction of Jesus was muscular and imposing, similarly to the Pagan gods. Pagan mythology was celebrated, while completely eradicated in the Protestant world.

While Immanuel Kant was an analytic philosopher from Germany, his religion was Lutheran. American and British mentalities draw largely upon Protestant tradition that is based on an intentional way of living; standards of ethics and morality are held highly, when transgressed—there is public outrage, moralizing, and shaming—irrespective of whether they come from the Left or the Right. For example, it is no coincidence that the practice of witch-burning was predominantly a Protestant tradition. Thus, one can easily see how the concept of cancel culture would emanate from this mindset—a mentality that is largely lacking in Catholic-majority countries.

This puritanical mode of thinking has influenced both the progressive and conservative divide in the modern public square, where both appeal to pure argumentations and their applications; if one disagrees or fails to abide by their philosophy, they become frowned upon, marginalized, and expelled, even. It is focused on prescribing a specific lifestyle, a Protestant ethic that stems from rigidly following biblical scriptures, rather than on creating a culture that focuses on the experience of the religion; the saints, the arts, and traditions to follow. In essence—Anglo-Saxons think, while Europeans experience.

The Continental or Italian form of Catholicism is not puritanical. This doesn’t mean there’s no faith in God, or no hope of sanctity, but it does mean that transgressions are treated differently. The Continental mentality still relies on structures of pardon and grace—it is not indifferent to sin, but does see every sin situated within a structure which can give remedy. As a result, contradictions and complexities are accepted as a natural reality, political nuance is welcomed; concepts reflected in story-telling and in the arts, all allow for a richer, idiosyncratic expression.

The typical Anglo-Protestant criticism of the continental, Catholic way of life is thus that it is hypocritical—it is said that politicians are hypocritical for upholding a Catholic mentality at the same time as they fail the tests of Catholic morality. I once spoke to an American Catholic who told me Italians were “baptized Pagans”, he later added, “so you just live in sin, and repent.” I couldn’t think of a better description. Individual, moral failures don’t negate the need for a moral structure of repentance and renewal—on the contrary, the evidence of the sin is proof for the necessity of upholding the Christian culture.

One sees this in Italian political leaders who proudly claim to be Catholic—like the head of the League party Matteo Salvini or Prime Minister Giorgia Meloni—both unmarried, with children out of wedlock. Despite living at odds with the Church’s teaching on marriage, they still cherish Christianity as a durable civilizational structure, and aren’t afraid to say so.

While it may seem like a contradiction, Italians have no problem seeing morally flawed politicians passing stricter laws concerning euthanasia, abortion or gay marriage than America or Britain. This too is part of a Catholic mentality with deep roots. It reflects a mindset to see that the state should act in a way that protects communal wellbeing according to its teachings—regardless of personal failings. It is an inversion of the individualistic logic that belongs to the Anglosphere, where one is first and foremost an individual, and then, perhaps, part of a community of their choice. In Italy and other Catholic-majority countries at large, one is first a member of a largely homogenous community, and is an individual only as a result of this praxis. This can go awry, of course; for example, when social conformity means neo-liberal decadence, as is now in Europe, it is more arduous to find an escape.

The Anglosphere, by contrast, is marked by divisions, with a plethora of subcultures distinct and diverse in their beliefs. While these can offer an escape to homogeneity in decadence, it causes more hostility. Even their economic systems reflect this reality; the Protestant work ethic is one that exalts individual achievement through personal responsibility; the state needs to be minimized as much as possible, not merely to allow individuals to flourish, but because individuals are responsible for their own choices. Catholic countries, by contrast, usually enjoy large welfare systems, an idea that stems from the need to help the poor and the downtrodden, a concept that necessarily relies on the premise that we are not all architects of our own destiny, some were dealt a lesser hand, and need help and support from their environment because of it.

Feeling like a hybrid of these two philosophies, I often find myself pulled back and forth by both schools of thought; with my Anglophone friends, I tend to speak of abstract, intellectual ideas on what is right or wrong, what should or should not be done; with my Italian or Continental friends I tend to enjoy the habits of a culture in more embodied ways shared by people with and without faith.

The Anglo-Saxon moral compass is one where standards and principles to aspire to live by creates a morally consistent outlook, and having standards is noble. But the Anglosphere mentality can be self-defeating. It sees hypocrisy everywhere because it is built on a theological division which first highlighted the hypocrisy in the Catholic church, on the need for rigid purity which negates the Christian teaching that we are born as sinners, and on the priority of the individual which creates more tensions within a culture. By contrast, the Catholic cultural mentality, even where faith is weak, remains tied to a graced structure that lives and moves without puritanical posturing.

Aspiring to use Christian symbols—a rosary in the hand, a knee bent before an altar, the celebration of beloved saints, the restoration of beautiful Churches, state support for schools that maintain a crucifix, the preservation and creation of art which attracts people to the faith, brings a phenomenological dimension to life that is necessary to create a cultural reality in the lives of its followers. By whatever measure we track the decline of faith, as well as our rising divisions, our future hope and unity still depend as much on cultural Christianity as upon the original gift which gave birth to it—but we should not look so much to the personal purity as to the experiences which can raise our hopes.

Milan is a husk of its former self. When I came back the city where I had grown up, after living in the U.S. for a year, I went through a reversed culture shock, one that many Italians who had also returned after an experience abroad shared with me. I felt like I was back to a small province of an Empire, where opportunities were fewer, and the prospects for growth, whether personal or professional, far dimmer.

It didn’t help that Milan is an urban city known for being the least beautiful in Italy, surrounded by concrete pavements with grey buildings and foggy, polluted air. But there is something romantic and enchanting about Milan’s urban ugliness that I learned to appreciate. It’s the Roman city of Mediolanum, where old pagan temples with Roman columns still stand, transformed into Catholic Churches. Love graffiti are spray painted in front of schools, fashion brands showcase their eccentric design. There’s a mixture of Romanesque, Gothic and Renaissance Cathedrals, modernist and industrial buildings, a few skyscrapers, and a cultural attitude being somewhere between Italy and Germany; a Nordic and Mediterranean synthesis.

I found my community again; I saw my family and friends after years of being away isolated because of the pandemic. I felt connected to deeper roots by going to mass at the Basilica of St. Ambrose, walking through the same steps and walls where Emperor Theodosius was denied communion by Archbishop Saint Ambrose for the Massacre of Thessalonica in Greece. I had a sense of security, familiarity and connectedness that I realised I had taken for granted in America.

But the U.S. has other upsides, the most notable being its relentless energy. The chaos, while overwhelming at times, is also invigorating. Western European culture is now underwhelming, especially during the pandemic. Italy’s stringent restrictions have created a climate of distrust, fear and anxiety among the general populace. The ruling, bureaucratic elites have become more entrenched in their power to dictate unpopular laws.

When I returned home it dawned on me, after many experiences abroad and working for a number of different papers, from the Arab world, where I first started reporting, to Europe, and finally America, that I should stabilise and evolve into something I can call my own.

I was averse to creating my own channel because, as Joseph Rago, a Pulizer-Prize winning journalist after whom I had received a fellowship, said in a piece called “The Blog Mob”:

“The bloggers, for their part, produce minimal reportage. Instead, they ride along with the MSM like remora fish on the bellies of sharks, picking at the scraps.”

I agreed with this statement when I read it, so much that I quoted him during my speech when I received the award. I explained why I was trying to find my way into traditional journalism, at the few papers remaining that allowed some flexibility and diversity in thought, in that case, The Wall Street Journal, where I was working as a fellow.

While I still agree with this statement, I also believe that independent journalism can be done responsibly, and with the same editorial discretion and empirical commitment that most mainstream newspapers have now lost. In other words, online and independent journalism can be a counterweight to a largely decadent press, offering authenticity through a form of autonomy that is directly dependent on one’s readership, rather than higher powers.  

In The New Criterion, Joseph Rago reviewed his piece, expressing “regret” for his earlier lack of nuance on the misgivings of independent journalism:

“A phenomenon as large and as varied as “online journalism” deserved a more mature treatment and its vastness and variousness resist large, definitive claims . . . In that respect ‘The Blog Mob’ participated in the trends it decried.”

I also had to stop, and take some time to reflect on the direction that my work was taking. I’d like to start writing without an editor who will filter my views, for better or worse. I still intend to do freelance journalism for other outlets on topics that I believe would do a better service by being published in particular newspapers, but I’d like to dedicate a page to some unfiltered journalism, thoughts and ideas here on Substack.

For now at least, the newsletter will be made without a paywall. I look forward to hearing your feedback.