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I remember Jole Santelli’s entry into the Chamber in May 2001. I, a young Espresso reporter, just arrived to tell the story of the Transatlántica, she, my age, elected deputy for Forza Italia, at Paola’s school. He was 32 years old, he invariably appeared in portraits as an assistant and lawyer to Marcello Pera in Cesare Previti’s studio, as if to say his political godparents, but in reality he could already boast of a law degree, a diploma from the Institute of Legislative Studies, Advocacy. She had practiced with two big names, Tina Lagostena Bassi and Vincenzo Siniscalchi, she adored Claudio Martelli and played in the radicals, then she had met Forza Italia, in 1994, in Silvio Berlusconi’s first historic electoral campaign, and had been involved in the parliamentary group.
«For a young party like mine, Parliament is the school to select new peopleHe had told me. Politics in the blood: the uncle had been a codename of the First Republic, the socialist leader Giacomo Mancini. He had been her teacher and when she entered Montecitorio he had given her loving advice: “Always be yourself, don’t be carried away by the storms.” Berlusconi had appointed her undersecretary of Justice, it seemed the beginning of an overwhelming career. One night I saw her get out of a blue car in front of the Plaza de Roma hotel, with her mother and her sister Roberta, for the presentation of a book by Bruno Vespa, she had herself photographed on the stairs and I had taken her out. running in the newspaper. But she was not the type to shy away from a mischievous journalist who was perceived as a political opponent: “In recent years I have changed jobs too many times. Now I hope to calm down. Politics is a career. When you are high you can fall ».
In that reckless and lying roller coaster that is Italian politics, he had become a myth for the members of Forza Italia, a rock for everyone, especially for the youngest, and in the most difficult times, all crucified in the same way and without distinctions, and a colleague esteemed by adversaries and opponents of all parties. There, in an armchair in Montecitorio, to give advice, make jokes, one cigarette after another.
A political professional, a rare animal in the Second Republic of the desert she belonged to, a politician that was the passion she lived for until the last moment. Nice, shameless and worldly at times but with a deep humanity that earned respect.
She was ill, but she faced the last battle with the determination that was her way of being in the world. First the election as president of the Calabria region, then the nightmare covid. With the inner weight of a disease that you cannot talk about with anyone, because politics burns everything and you cannot show yourself fragile, vulnerable, you cannot reveal loneliness, especially if you are a woman, in a macho world like the one you inhabit and commands in the Italian parties, right and left.
I confess that in recent months it sometimes occurred to me to think of her and I wanted to call her. She often asked those who knew her, “How is Jole doing?” From a distance, with discretion. And when a few days ago I saw her dance in a video, despite the criticism, I had a strange and painful feeling. That was the way to greet all those who had chosen Jole Santelli, career politician, lover of life.
