from Il Manifesto, 12 March 2024
Homage to Franco Basaglia. It is “far” 1973 and the psychiatric hospital near Charleroi hosts “many Italians”. In the 1970s, Charleroi, the main coal mining and industrial center of Belgium, was still a landing place for many Italian immigrants. The Consulate had its hands full, with 140,000 compatriots to serve, and I will hardly be able to forget the human experiences lived as a Consul among the mines. It happened in 1973 that the director of a local psychiatric hospital invited me to visit his facility, because – this is the reason – “it hosts many Italians”.
Of course I go. In the pavilions I meet my compatriots, many of whom appear less “demented” than I imagined. Coming out of the large rooms, one of them clings to my arm and stammers several times: “For mercy’s sake, let me out of this hell.” I ask him his name, while the director pushes me into his office. Once the door is closed, I beg him to let me take a look at the poor guy’s medical records. Faced with the director’s reticence, I point out to him that by law the consul is the guardian of his banned compatriots, and therefore also of his patients. Finally they bring me the file: it seems well filled out and also indicates the names of those who had signed the hospitalization request at the time. I thank you and go back to the office. At that point a doubt arises in my mind. I turn to one of our Belgian lawyers and ask him: “Who has the power in Belgium to have someone who goes mad committed to confinement?”.
His response leaves me stunned: “Simple, all you need is the signature of a doctor and a relative; it is a rule from the last century but still in force”. Therefore – this is my conclusion – who knows how many are unjustly imprisoned for unspeakable reasons. Those were the years in which a revolutionary trio – the South African David Cooper, the Scot Ronald Laing and Franco Basaglia in Italy – launched the anti-psychiatry manifesto.
It wasn’t difficult for me, through mutual friends, to have an appointment with Basaglia at his house. But before leaving I go back to the psychiatric hospital and ask to examine the medical records of the apparently less serious Italian patients. I choose three and photocopy them, amidst the director’s remonstrances, and leave for Venice. In the attic with an enchanting view of the Grand Canal, Franco Basaglia and his wife Franca Ongaro welcome me – intrigued and courteous.
As they examine the medical records brought with me, their attention sharpens. And I get to the point that I wanted to clarify first of all to myself: is it possible that the mental disorders of those patients are connected to their immigration status? Their response leaves little doubt about my doubt: given – they tell me – that it is not serious to make judgments without visiting the patient, it seems to us that at least one of these three cases presents disorders that can be linked to uprooting from the village of origin. So – I ask – out of the hundreds of Italian immigrants locked up in mental hospitals (that’s what they were called back then), many would recover if they were repatriated? Of course – Basaglia confirms to me – and this is the meaning of what we define as “institutional violence”.
Back in Charleroi, I make use of his knowledge to attempt a first, uncertain experiment in “liberation”. I make contact with the director of an Italian hospital known for being “Basagliano”, who agrees to admit to his facility the patient whose medical records Basaglia himself had examined.
Once the various bureaucratic obstacles posed by the Belgian director to avoid responsibility have been overcome, an ambulance transports the patient to the border where he is taken care of by the Italians. He will remain in the hospital for a few months, before returning recovered to his village of origin with a job offer and a decent Belgian pension. Here we did not want to tell a “beautiful fairy tale” with a happy ending, but rather to commemorate Basaglia by throwing a beam of light on the psychic fragilities of the new immigrants, who experience the same tragedies as Italian emigrants in the post-war period. Without forgetting the compatriots still locked up abroad in dilapidated psychiatric facilities. Our consuls – who are guardians of the interdicts according to law – could make a difference, and what a difference.