I feel emotional, more than I have in a long time over a political outcome (yes, political!).
And for some reason, I find myself thinking of my one-and-a-half-year-old children, who can barely speak yet. Hardly at all. But they make themselves understood, and there’s one thing they say loud and clear: no.
They say it when they don’t want to eat, when something scares them, when they feel that something isn’t right.
What does that “no” mean, the one they can whisper, but also shout? Perhaps simply: “I don’t like it, I don’t want it.”
And I like to think that Italians, even those who may not have understood every detail of the reform, wanted to say just this: I don’t like that you are the ones changing the Constitution.
I don’t like questioning the work of judges and subjecting them to politics.
I don’t like those who, while under investigation, attack the justice system.
I don’t want it. I don’t like it. You don’t convince me.
And perhaps it’s worth saying: this “no” is not a retreat into immobility. It’s not the desire for nothing to change. On the contrary, it is the rejection of a change perceived as unjust, or at least unconvincing.
Meloni has just stated that “there is bitterness, because the goal was to improve the country.” But improve it for whom? And above all: in what way?
It feels somewhat striking to hear talk of change from those who have always presented themselves as defenders of order and tradition. So perhaps that “no” is not against change.
It is a way of saying: not like this.
And perhaps, every now and then, even a democracy needs to return to that—a short, clear word that doesn’t explain everything, but says enough.
Simply: no.
Maria Pranzo
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