Dinner Party Chatter – Page 13 – Thoughts and not beliefs, with the occasional wild speculation

Early Morning in Southern Italy

This article focuses on recent “socio-sanitary developments” in the south of Italy that are “improving” the lives of residents.

At about 5.30 am each morning, the city council where we live sends out a trained team of employees to wake everyone up, just in case we can’t manage it ourselves. As an extra service they sometimes take the rubbish away as well, in tiny three-wheeled contraptions that are, from what I have seen so far, the backbone of Italian industrial might.

I’ve often in fact wondered why these exotic machines have not been introduced into other nations’ economies. (We shall call them took-took-clatters, because they took-took and clatter along the lanes). Their capacity is astonishing when you consider they can carry near enough a ton of cargo in a structure that is little more than a motorised wheelbarrow, as author of Italian Neighbours Tim Parks once described them . They can often be seen with an old bath tub in the back, in which two or three workmen are furiously mixing cement. Or leaning over menacingly with the contents of a small warehouse stacked up in an unlikely pile fully contemptuous of gravity.

The illustrious industrial might of Italy apart however, there can be no other machine in the history of mankind’s meddlesome tinkering with the internal combustion engine that can make more noise – even when switched off, dismantled, piled up in small heaps and scattered around the solar system one imagines – or that can encourage such loud shouting from its operators, than one of these iniquitous abominations. If you’ve ever wondered whether there exists a machine solely for the production of noise, well, this is it. The fact that it can also be used to collect rubbish and carry things in is but a fiendish accident of design (a “spandrel” as the late evolutionary biologist Steven Jay Gould might have called it).

If you drive a took-took clatter along the narrow vicoli of the old historical quarters of Italian towns, it is as if the entire noise production of a very noisy steel foundry (bottled over a conservative period of 100 years), has just been released beneath your window, all in the space of about 40 seconds. That’s about the time it takes the little hydraulic crane on the back of this monstrous contraption to attempt to grab, hoist and then spill the contents of the bins all over the cobbled stones.

After the rubbish is collected (or rather, strewn) over the lanes in this way you could, if you are so inclined, follow the trail of cans and bottles and potato peel to where the somewhat larger “command ship” rubbish cart stands waiting, and then watch as almost none of the rubbish that made it from the various collection points in the narrow lanes is carefully tipped.

I have on occasion done that, and I must confess that all one can do while beholding such activity is to marvel. Yet the real nuisance is not the rubbish, but the noise. Noise, lots of it, is what lubricates Italian civil life. It is a national right to make noise in Italy, just like voting or breathing, and everyone always makes sure they use it to the full.

That’s why it’s bemusing to note the introduction of a strange new breed of rubbish bin into southern Italian cities. Strolling past what looked like an ordinary municipal rubbish bin one day, I was privileged to be given a glimpse into the mind of apparently progressive Italian civil planners. A signora, carrying several rubbish filled supermarket carrier bags (without which none of us could live and society would never function) was opening the cavernous mouth of the bin by stepping on a lever with her foot (most ingenious i thought). I instinctively braced myself for the loud clatter that the lid was about to make as it slammed shut, breathing out as it did all sorts of evil odours and fragrances. But instead the lid continued to hang open after she’d deftly hurled the bags in, oscillating silently a few centimetres about its position.

It was one of those moments where the volume is suddenly turned down and everything conveniently becomes still in the background, so that you can concentrate on what’s going on in the main scene. The light itself became blurred and a haze shrouded the rubbish bin, where a busy formation of flies buzzed extra special slow just to add to the effect. Even the signora’s dress waved in slow motion through the thickened air as she walked away back to her door. And even when she had reached the doorway and her foot was on the first step, still no sound had come from the bin. Yet ever so gradually, and almost imperceptibly, the lid was surely and firmly coming down. As I gazed, sudden realisation came: not only had some thoughtful genius invented the silent closing rubbish bin, a deranged local council official had actually bought and installed one into a city whose rubbish collectors regularly wake the dead.

But I continued to watch, certain that the lid would reach a certain angle and then collapse catastrophically shut. Not a chance. To my complete annoyance it continued to descend quietly, discharging itself exponentially until closed. And as god and the signora are witness, no more than a clack came from it.

It is one thing to risk being arrested, say, if you are stalking someone, but it is another thing being caught loitering around a rubbish bin, and in the end i strolled on. But this was in 1999, and up until then my experience of Italian municipal rubbish bins was that the lid would near well take your arm off as it came down if you were not careful, not to mention battering your eardrums and breathing foul odours in your face. I confess I had never seen anything like it before – complete with little hydraulic dampers such as you find on the rear door of a family hatchback to stop it from slamming.

But now it seems that irreversible change is upon Italy, because in 2008 nearly all the bins come with this damping mechanism installed. It is but a matter of time before even the post office will start actually stocking stamps, i fear, and the newsagent will stop selling sweets by way of pretending they don’t have any small change. This vivacious, complex and above all noisy people are going the way of the fussy races of the Considerate Nations to the north, and who knows what this will do to Italian life.

The Italian Connections: Why Italy Never Ruled the World

This article exposes the shocking truth about Italian electric fittings.

There are three distinct periods in Italian history. First, there is the engineering, economic and military brilliance of the Romans. Next, the cultural and scientific genius of the Renaissance. And last, and certainly the least, we have the Great and Unfathomable Age of Mindless Incompetence and Pointless Complexity. That is, our present day.

Several months ago, in a small and rather unimportant office somewhere in a small and rather unimportant provincial town in southern Italy (Salerno), an event of great moment took place. I and several other subjects of her majesty Queen Elizabeth II installed what was to become the centre piece of our lives. As one would do with a fire place in a cold and remote mountain cabin, so we also did with this masterpiece of engineering. When it was finished we gathered round our handiwork and admired its brilliance. It has 3 holes, one switch, two screws and requires at least 6 strong, well fed horses to yank it out of its place on the wall.

The moment was indeed noteworthy, since to us it was the equivalent of raising the flag on the North Pole, or planting it in the lunar dust. To this day it sits exactly where it was first installed; solid, reliable, functional. And, above all, immovable.

We speak of course of the humble electric wall socket – British variety. Together with the tap, the electric wall socket is indisputably the life blood of modern domestic and industrial life, bringing power and convenience to the remotest corner of every home and workplace on the planet. Our reliance on it is colossal, and it is only when it is absent or doesn’t work that we realise exactly where we’d be without it.

This is why it is astonishing that Italy can function as a society, because the Italian wall socket is anything but convenient. It is, to put it mildly, an abomination, a stain on the history of design and development, a blot on the landscape of ingenuity and a curse to any foreigner who was born into a nation where wall sockets faithfully do what they are supposed to do: provide electricity and stay firmly fixed to where you screwed them in.

Intricate Technical Details of the Italian Electric Wall Plug

Italian wall sockets: a mark of pure idiocy

To get an appreciation of what we are talking about here, it is sadly necessary to burden the reader with the design of the Italian electric wall socket. The device, if it might be called such, has a plastic body, in which is set one or more “gangs” that receive the plugs of electrical appliances. To either side of the gangs there are usually two screws, that, theoretically, are supposed to anchor the socket into the wall. The screws themselves are each attached to a metal lug on the inside of the socket, and when tightened they are supposed, again theoretically, to grip the sides of the hole into which the socket is placed.

Picture of Italian wall sockets dangling from wall — The Italian wall socket has been designed for efficient dangling from walls. The deluxe version may also kill people

But this is where the problems start. The hole in the wall is usually lined with a short cylindrical pipe, and it is the inside of this pipe that the metal lugs are “designed” to grip, pressing against the sides when the screws are tightened from the outside. However, because the pipe frequently lacks any internal groove or lip behind which the metal lugs can anchor themselves, what usually results is that the socket comes clean out of the hole whenever an appliance is unplugged; attached, perhaps, to a bit of the wall as well. Even in the rare case when the socket stays firmly anchored, what often happens is that the gangs themselves come away instead! This is because the problem is not only with the functional design, but also with the quality of the materials used.

This all may not sound like much, especially if you are an average Italian who has grown up surrounded by the entrails of plugs dangling from every wall. But to a foreigner from an electrically advanced society (EAS), it is nothing short of a nightmare. What should be a simple procedure of unplugging your shaver or hairdryer turns into a life or death struggle with a ravenous serpent that refuses to let go of the plug.

An Adapter for Every Occasion

Absolute insanity: Italian electrical adapters

Sadly (though somewhat unsurprisingly) the story of the evils of electrical inconvenience in Italy does not end there. It is further infinitely complicated by the plethora of electric plugs, adaptors and extension leads used in the everyday attempt to get the simplest of appliances to work (the picture on the left only shows a handful). If you think that toasting your bread or grinding your coffee is as simple as plugging in the toaster or grinder, then you have probably never been to Italy. The procedure can at times be unbelievably complicated, and often you may fail entirely.

This is becasue in Italy there are easily four different sizes and ratings of plugs, from the very thin and flimsy to the very thick and rigid, and all of them are cunningly designed so as not to fit into the same socket (regardless of whether the socket is dangling from the wall or still miraculously fixed to it).

One arrangement of Italian electrical adapters — You might, for example, need this assortment to get your toaster working

Yet, as with most things that would drive any half-normal person completely insane, this is no deterrent to the Italian. Whether designed in Italy or imported from abroad, he has found a solution. Like some deranged mastermind solving a Rubik cube style puzzle, he will whip out one, two, three and even four adapters and connectors in a brilliant display of problem solving aimed at getting a shaver or hairdryer working. To be sure, in the eyes of our hero, this exasperating procedure actually represents a triumph, and not the colossal waste of time (not to mention vexation) that it would to any normal person.

British Standard Electric Fittings — Pure Brilliance: The British electric system

In blessed contrast, the British domestic electrical system is simplicity itself, which is to say nothing of its elegance, convenience and safety (being also fused). With only one standard type of plug, wall socket, adapter and extension, your average British citizen abides in an electrical paradise. Apart from simplicity, once fixed to the wall, the British electrical socket stays there – forever. Plugging and unplugging an appliance is pure joy (so much, in fact, that if one had nothing better to do one could do it all day as a special treat after a trip to Italy).

And there are no words to describe the pleasure experienced when one pulls out a plug and finds that the wall socket (and also the wall) is exactly where it should be. This luxury of functional design, together with the standardisation of fittings, saves not only frustration and time, but probably also lives.

We have finally arrived at why Italy was never a great world power, while the British ruled the globe. Basically, no country that has time to battle with dangling electric sockets -or rummage through draws or in cupboards or under beds for adapters, or which risks loosing members of its population to electrocutions through cheap design – could ever have found the time to sail the wide seas and conquer the world. The Romans did it, to be sure, but strictly speaking they were not Italians, because just like the ancient Egyptians they have about as much in common with “inginiere Pasquale” or “elettrecista Giuseppe” as Tutankhamen has with president Mubarak.

God save The Queen

The author wrote this article in hiding.

Patriotism and Bullshit

These days one is very frequently tempted into giving one’s opinion – generously, without solicitation and for free – to anyone who is unable to avoid hearing it. One of the most common deliveries of this nature concerns Italy and Italians, and usually starts with “Italy is a beautiful country; the food is great…” and so on. But it frequently winds up by concluding that Italians themselves are in fact an undeserving, primitive lot who are still a good many branches short of a full, Darwinian landing (as opposed to Albanians, say, who are an entire tree-top away from climbing down).

Not only do Italians drive the wrong way around roundabouts; or lawyers, notaries and government officials answer the phone without identifying themselves (just in case it’s a disgruntled punter, of which there are many); not only are drains positioned in front of an ATM machine exactly at the spot where you would drop and loose forever your credit card; and not only do lift operators, bus and taxi drivers go for lunch between 1.30 and 4.30 pm, precisely when everyone else is going home for lunch as well; but also, if that were not enough, everyone suddenly forgets all of these more wicked and annoying traits of Italians and only remembers the food and architecture.

The response by Italians to such an admittedly outrageous and disrespectful affront (as delivered by opinionated foreigners) is usually quite predictable: if Italy is so bad, they say, why don’t you just go back to where you came from? (This always confuses me, because I’m not sure where I came from).

But it has recently occurred to me that this standard and almost universal response can easily be countered by realising that most Italians themselves in fact wish to leave Italy. After which it becomes a mere formality to rebuke any uppity native who dares question the authority of a judgement delivered by one of Her Majesty’s subjects: I’m here through choice, one answers, where as you have to live here!

The situation is found in many countries throughout the world, though it is in many cases a lot worse. Egyptians for example, have an irresistible desire to tell you (after having tried to sell you something of course) that Egypt is the greatest country on earth etc. And that all other countries are green with envy because they haven’t got what Egypt has. Which is, exactly?

The exasperating response, we soon find out as if we didn’t know, is that Egypt has pyramids and tombs, as well as a thriving broad bean industry that churns out foule (the national dish) by the giga-tonne.

In counter exasperation, the only response to this vexation is to point out that both the pyramids and the tombs were built by a race that would, to a man, turn in their graves to find out who it was that now lived in their place. And as far as the broad beans are concerned? Well, we won’t argue with them on that one.

So, the best advice to long suffering though opinionated foreign visitors to any nation, is that if ever you are confronted with the plaintive and rather idiotic response of “why don’t you go back to where you came from”, the only counter-response is, “What a good idea”.

Silvio and the 500,000 theives

It is useless to claim, for a person of depth, that one avoids politics because it leads nowhere. But, alas, it must be said. Because, after a brief period in the wilderness, Silvio Berlusconi is back.

This recent victory, at the head of the Party of Liberty, prompted a question: how is it possible that a liar and a cheat should be a politician, nay, become president? For which there is no answer, because the proposition is wrongly phrased. It is not in fact a question, but a statement: it is only possible to become a politician if one is in fact a liar and a cheat.

And to become president, one must be a very good liar and cheat, particularly in a country such as Italy where there are, by the last count, some 500,000 or so politicians and political dependents all on state stipends and all of whom it is very difficult to get rid of. They cling to power with all the ardour of the proverbial steaming pile of manure that clingeth to the ass’s tail, accompanied by a retinue of eager flies, the would-be political hopefuls.

To say that all politicians are liars, cheats and thieves is like saying all hands are hands. It is an evident tautology. So, the only reasonable statement that would not be considered a triviality is to say that there are only two types of liars, cheats and thieves: left wing and right wing.

Motherfakers

Dealing ruthlessly with nuisance fraudsters.

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If you’ve ever been bothered by a street peddler, then chances are you’ve bought something you didn’t want just so they’ll go away. What most hustlers count on, in fact, is your wish to get rid of them as quickly as possible. But if everyone refused to be intimidated, the phenomenon just might fade away.

Imagine (or recall) this scene. You are sitting at a table with a friend, and along come a man or woman bearing a card declaring them to be deaf and dumb. They put it down on your table uninvited, together with a pen or lighter. Most of the trinkets work for about as long as it takes for the peddler to escape after a “sale”, and none of them are worth even a fraction of the price asked.

But that’s not the reason for objecting to this invasion of privacy. You are relaxing, enjoying an intimate moment with a friend, and the last thing you want is the stress and bother of having to deal with someone asking you to buy something. Besides, you have a suspicion that you are being taken for a mug, because any unscrupulous person can pretend to be deaf and dumb. What is more, no self-respecting deaf and dumb person who cares about public understanding towards the less able would go round peddling wares table to table.

Most anyone who walks or drives the streets or dines at restaurants in South Italy has been prey to the dreaded trinket peddlers, as well as window washers and straightforward “old fashioned” beggars. As such, most of us find it easier to pay up than to question whether or not the person confronting us is genuine. And usually the “purchase” or “gift” will have most likely been a result of some feeling of annoyance or intimidation and not simply a voluntary, humanitarian and well intentioned act of charity.

Even Nietzsche, in Thus Spoke Zarathustra, had something to say about this loathsome predicament. “Beggars should be abolished” he wrote; “It is irritating to give to them and it is irritating not to.” That, to some, might be the end of the matter and no more argument is needed.

However, others defend the opposite view, which was once elegantly articulated by social commentator Samuel Johnson. In her Anecdotes on Johnson, Hester Piozzi records Johnson’s response to this (by now well known) question: “What signifies, says someone, giving halfpence to beggars? They only lay it out in gin or tobacco.”

To which Johnson responds: “And why should they be denied such sweeteners of their existence? It is surely very savage to refuse them every possible avenue to pleasure, reckoned too coarse for our own acceptance.”

Tragic philosopher Nietzsche and, a century earlier, liberal commentator Johnson (who once kicked a stone to prove that it existed) sat at opposite ends on the matter.

Yet, even though modern methods of begging have evolved somewhat since their time, with cunning fraudsters adopting appearances of disenfranchisement not familiar to Johnson or Nietzsche, it is still at heart just “classical” begging. But instead of simply soliciting a “sweetener” purely on the strength of the unlucky position they have been allotted in life, (after all, you might well be in their shoes), you are presented with a person who at least appears to be trying to give something back to society in return for your gift. Something useful no doubt, such as a clean window or a lighter that doubles as a laser.

Moreover, here in Italy most hustlers are young and very healthy looking, and some even have a dog or two waiting near by – something that would have been unthinkable in Johnson’s time. Many are also indirectly intimidating, and they are notoriously resilient to discouragement, being very difficult to get rid of. Usually, anyone lacking a stern voice (or a gun perhaps) inevitably has to cough up a couple of coins just to get back their privacy and peace and quiet. Even those who do not persist and who thankfully move off at the first glimmer of homicidal intent are irritating, having already spent one micro-second too long hovering around you.

Personally I have tried everything, from quiet, gentle dialogue, to letting them wash my car windows without payment. Or, if they are selling something, receiving the item and refusing to give it back, again without payment. Apparently cruel, these are last resort measures that one is sadly often forced to apply. But even then they only work after strenuous effort, by which time you have increased your stress level while waiting for the lights to change, or wasted more intimate moments at the restaurant than if you had just simply coughed up the money.

And that is what most of these hustlers bank upon: your wish to get rid of them as quickly and as painlessly as possible! They have learned or been taught by their pimp that if you bother someone enough in public from under the guise of an apparently helpless individual, that person often won’t risk being labelled a callous fiend for turning you down. Granted, there are varying degrees of intimidation, with the grinning flower sellers being more tenacious and troublesome than an alleged deaf and dumb Neapolitan who benignly leaves a lighter on your table. But both are equally unacceptable not to mention vexatious, because both are an invasion of personal space by someone who is quite likely a fraud. Yet even if the person is “genuine” it is still intolerable. Having a hand reach down uninvited and from nowhere to place a lighter or a rose right next to your dish of spaghetti al vongole is, quite simply, outrageous.

I have promised myself that the next time this occurs – and it occurs at reasonably expensive establishments as well as casual tratorias and bars – I will call the manager and politely inform him that I am not paying the bill. You are after all expecting a quiet relaxed dinner and not a public manipulation of your social conscience, something you can do privately and for free. I would be quite prepared to wait for the Carabinieri to arrive even, but I’m quite sure that instead the manager will knock a few euros off the bill and be glad to see me leave.

One might wonder why managers and owners let these peddlers into their establishments in the first place. Is it because southern Italy, where life is tougher than say the UK, Germany or France, there is a significant social tolerance of such practices? Simply because it is recognised that life is, well, tough? It could be, but i prefer the reason suggested by a friend who owns a restaurant: by allowing hustlers to peddle at their establishment something bad will not happen to the flower pots or windows.

None of us who are decent human beings look down on anyone who is trying to make a living, however humble. Nor do we go out of our way to foil them in their efforts to survive. But there are norms, and it is clear that almost all of them are broken by the table and traffic light hustlers. Usually there is little we can do about it if we wish for a quiet life and also don’t wish to be forced into being callous fiends. But if we do put up a fight and refuse to cave in we end up feeling guilty as well as irritated! Even in tolerant south Italy where people either cough up or endure the ordeal until it goes away, they are not happy about it. And who would be happy about having your very character and emotions manipulated in this way?

What is lacking among those of us who don’t wish to suffer the manipulation of our compassion, is solidarity. We are isolated. Each of us in the moment we are prayed on is alone, coerced into displaying our character (often an unfair portrait) in front of friends and the public. Do we cough up and risk being branded a pushover, or do we put up a fight and risk being branded heartless, especially in the eyes of someone you perhaps are trying to romance or impress in that particular moment? It’s a tough choice and, if truth be told, someone with their wits about them could potentially turn the situation to their advantage, being either firm and resolute, or kind and gentle, which ever you think might impress the most!

But, such calculating (though admirable) counter exploitations apart, most times the table and street peddler is a pain in the arse, and the only wage he should be allowed to take home is nothing more than a large flea in his ear.

But what about the genuinely disadvantaged and helpless, some of whom are forced to beg or peddle trinkets by pimps who ruthlessly put them out to work? Such “beggar and peddler” pimping is common in southern Italy, where the small time mafia controls both the local and illegal immigrant market in human “resources”. And if that were not ugly enough, eastern European children and mothers are increasingly being used to elicit pity and money from hapless passers by. Just last week I witnessed one mother carrying a child turn over her takings to a man who then deftly put the money in a bag and walked off, presumably to his next collection rendezvous.

Immigrant “workers” from North Africa and the Ivory Coast are often given a vending kit or bucket and cloth and placed at hot spots around the city. For this estimable privilege they must earn a day’s minimum for their mafia controller (generously being allowed to keep whatever surplus they get) or else lose the “opportunity” to peddle and, perhaps, also suffer some physical abuse. They live miles outside of the city in atrocious conditions, possess no legal status and are often badly treated even when they are fulfilling the terms of their “employment”.

The Italian authorities supposedly want to do something about it [need some research here] but in the end what matters is the power that grass-roots policing can bring to bear on the small time mafia and camorra. Which, this being Italy, is not very much.

So what can be done I hear you plead? The answer is that unless someone is very clearly in visible need of something to eat and somewhere warm to stay, one is generally better off avoiding giving money no matter what their story. It is of course a shame that we must first see signs of real distress before we help people, but it may be necessary if we are to both avoid being taken for mugs and if we also wish to stamp out the exploitation of victims. Which is not even to mention the exploitation of our empathic sensitivities and our desire to be decent individuals.

The problem however, is that not giving to these unfortunate people might actually be setting them up for trouble. It is, in fact, a bad situation for everyone. If we don’t give, they may suffer at the hands of their pimp; but if we do, then we’ve been conned. Many people I know in the south of Italy do in fact swallow their pride and let themselves perhaps be conned. Very few indeed stand up for principles, and by failing to do so they also ensure that there is little chance of eventually stamping out this double exploitation. In giving in, they themselves fall victim to the execrable mafia and camorra pimps and in the long term do not help the exploited beggars and peddlers, but simply strengthen the industry.

Egypt

But Italy is not the worst place for beggars. During a recent trip to Alexandria, whilst walking along one of the opulent wide boulevards built by the 19^th century Ottomans with their imposing Italian palazzi, I was confronted by a man in his 50’s sitting on a chair with his hands outstretched. He had no eyes, no nose and only the vague remnants of a mouth and teeth, having presumably been horribly disfigured in an accident or explosion. Sickened and driven to uncontrollable pity I immediately thrust a 20 Egyptian pound note (£2) into his hands, roughly a days wage for a labourer in Egypt.

But, a few metres further down the road I realised I’d been conned. The man could not even dress himself, so how could he spend that 20 pounds without someone stealing from him? Someone was obviously “working” him, putting him out to graze suckers like me and induce in them the exact feelings of revulsion and pity that I experienced.

It might of course be argued that the man was nevertheless being cared for, earning more than his keep certainly, but nevertheless being cared for. Only, that is no justification surely. If it were, it would be little better than the story of the Elephant Man being kept in a circus to elicit revulsion, fascination and pity, together with a healthy days takings for his handlers who at least fed and clothed him. On the contrary, in such extreme cases one is almost prepared to judge that the unfortunate and pitiable man on the pavement, along with thousands of others, is better of dead in a country like Egypt. Even able bodied Egyptians often live harsh and miserable lives, and being dead somehow seems a more attractive option than being fed, clothed and kept alive as a circus freak cum cash cow.

Only there is some doubt as to the rightness of such an analysis, as it might be the case that the man with no face is truly cared for and that in fact sitting on that chair gives meaning and purpose to his life – he works, earns his keep – and the people who care for him may as a bonus actually be kind and loving.

I do not know the truth in his particular case, but I subsequently came to know of a number of stories of people sacrificing their time and precious resources for others, individuals whom the cold reason of a disinterested observer (at a slight remove of several metres no less) would have by now condemned to death. Such possibility of behaviour is uniquely human and to legislate absolutely (especially in the unwritten silent laws of society) against helping anyone makes us a little less human than we ought to be.

Yet equally we cannot be taken for mugs and some sort of balance, arrived at through both intelligence and humanity, needs to be struck. If we want really to do something about the genuinely needy we must intelligently consider both our own need to not be manipulated and exploited, and humanely consider the genuine need of those who are truly victims. The most effective way of course would be through political and social change, but then, we have to wait until politics itself is pure and uncorrupted.

Alas, the only solution is for the public itself to act, by realising that feeding an industry that itself feeds on the misery of the needy will not help change anything for the better. Temporary alleviation is no cure and in fact confirms to the exploiters that exploitation pays. To stamp out the exploitaion it has to be deprived of its food and oxygen. Which is, to put it in the starkest terms, nothing less than to deprive the people beig exploited of our compassion and empathy as humans.

Our refusal to be coerced into giving will, almost certainly, result in some temporary hardships for those who are forced to beg and peddle and perhaps even also to genuine “freelance” people in need. But in the end, if everyone boycotted giving the industry would splutter and finally die out as its sources of income driy up.

As Alexander Solzhenitsyn once said in the novel August 1914: “the worse the better”. That is, it must get worse in order for it to get better. Anaesthetising society through giving is like walking on a broken leg and not feeling the pain, because we have pumped ourselves full of pain-killers. But the pain is there for a reason, which is to tell us that something is wrong.

As a policy, this kind of approach may seem excessively morally righteous and unnecessarily harsh, but in actual fact it is both morally balanced and quite humane. At present many of us give simply so as to have a quiet life, or perhaps even to feel good about ourselves. Or perhaps out of a belief that we are truly helping, even if the help is to simply avoid the peddler or beggar getting a beating at the end of the day. That seems to be justification enough for some people and they continue to cave in to the peddlers without their realising that they are in fact part of the problem. But more than being part of the problem, they are also morally culpable, because giving for any reason other than through a genuine will to help is both reprehensible and totally illogical.

Nonetheless, if one still feels that there will be times when it will be impossible to refuse help, I offer this advice. It is remarkable to note that those who are really in need and perhaps in peril of imminent danger rarely behave intimidatingly or make a nuisance of themselves. Instead they are very often reluctant to approach you, having about them an aversion to begging that can only arise in a person who, from necessity, has been forced to swallow their pride and suppress their dignity so as to beg for a living. Paradoxically (and in a spirit of defiance), their dignity is constituted in sustaining this very injury; and perversely it is by virtue of that injury that they in fact come to merit our help and respect. In such a circumstance one must invent an action and decide consciously and responsibly to rely purely on one’s compassion, after which it is then possible, even if momentariy, to suspend the broader moral resolve of fighting the begging fraud.

But in such cases it is not so much a good deed that we perform, but in fact the discharge of a social duty. Even if we are mistaken in our judgment and we end up being duped after all, there is no shame in our action since we have deliberated morally and with care, as opposed to irritably thrusting a coin into someone’s palm.

Of course, none of this would address the root of the problem, but at least it would send a message to the pimps and to those who would try and dupe us that begging and peddling via intimidation and fraud will not be tolerated. In order to help the genuinely needy in the long term, we of course need major changes at a global level. But meantime, at least we can act to render unemployed all the fraudsters, shysters and ruthless exploiters who pray on the helpless and on us. It requires that we ourselves must be ruthless because, in the words of a character from a recent Hollywood film, they’re probably all fakers. Motherfakers.