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She must have been fifteen or sixteen years old and one day my mother pointed to a drawer in the room where she slept. This is yours, he said, you can do whatever you want with it, put whatever you want, neither I nor your father will ever open it. I put the cigarettes I would have secretly smoked, the copies of the love letters sent to the girls, the book of scam excuses for missing school (every now and then I think of the boys today, with their electronic records, reporting absences on time real votes, online an hour later, I think of my mother’s drawer taken out and beaten by technology like a night visit to the Stasi, I think how much it cost me to grow the violation of the rules, hide a deficiency and studying to get it back, I decide not to go to school and take the risk and responsibility, I think of our sterilized children in perennial digital control, the overriding of their free will in the name of vigilance for a good purpose, the panting pursuit of safety at the cost of freedom, the true omnivorous feature of our present).
My mother understood that there had to be an inviolable corner in me, that her role as mother did not coincide with that of sentinel, that every human being has the right to a little unspeakable, and above all she had grasped the profound difference between sanctioning an error and preventing it with the most implacable guard. Free societies sanction error (crime), despotic societies prevent it by any means, including liberticides.
I smile when I see pranksters in the square or on TV defending their freedom from the totalitarian aggression of a mask. They look like those balenghi that turn saccharin into coffee at the height of an eight course meal, they are (we) all trackable and traceable via smartphones, video images in every corner, scanned by algorithms, the total inspection apparently it has become a political program in insignificant words – insignificant if they were not part of a still cheap and schematic strategy, therefore already dangerous – of the five-star deputy Manuel Tuzi, for whom the reduction of parliamentarians is due to the need to make “best controllable” an assembly normally dedicated to crime. Democracy comes down to this: a coexistence based on guerrilla warfare between thieves and (self-proclaimed) guards.
And, in short, I am smiling at the barricades of the mask in the week in which the rule on Trojans came into force, the malware inoculated on mobile phones that allow interception 24 hours a day, while we are in the bathroom or doing the love, with the device on or off. , each one of our files, each one of our photos, each one of our sms, each one of our little unspeakable made available to our spy and our judge. Now intercept us all, said the butterflies of honesty long ago: here they are satisfied. The Trojan is a tool for prosecutors not only in the fight against organized crime, but also for crimes against public administration. Above all, it allows trawling (what a spectacular definition!), Where an interlocutor and each interlocutor can end up in the bag, their life transferred to a glass box, in the hands of the town commissioners, even for a single suspect or a solo. misunderstood.
I say George Orwell, quoted so abundantly: his Winston had an obligation to keep the television he watched on, and he watched it, but he could at least go to the park to regain a slice of scandalous freedom, hoping not to mistake a friend for a friend. informer. Give Orwell a Trojan, you who think about the pleasure of killing evildoers, and you will see what world will prepare you: to tell the way we have traveled.
I greet you with Isaac Asimov, who understood the terrifying inhumanity of the computer: once well programmed, it behaves with irremediable honesty.
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