The political tide turns in Italy

Silvio Berlusconi's fragile grip on power seems to be slipping as Italians vote against his policies

The first I heard of the news was an excited phone call from my father, who delivered a gruff, breathless cry of victory down the line: "We got him!"

Today saw the results of four referendum votes in Italy to repeal Berlusconi-era legislation on nuclear power, water privatisation and trial immunity for government ministers. The last of these has been fundamental in allowing the semi-despotic prime minister to continue his rule free of the tiresome hassle of legal action on charges of corruption and sexual harassment.

This referendum has finally given Italian voters the opportunity to bring the charade to an end, with a resounding 95 per cent of voters coming down against the government's policies. This represents a huge victory for the ideological left in the country, who have been conducting a frenzied campaign against the prime minister in the preceding weeks.

But more than that, this vote represents a fundamental, ground-level shift in Italian politics. No longer can Berlusconi be upheld as the licentious, yet charming rogue who all Italians secretly aspire to be. In the international community, his continual grip on power has been regarded with a form of open-mouthed incredulity, tempered with mild amusement at the poor, delusional voters who keep him in the top spot. Not anymore.

Italians have come out in their thousands -- the turnout for the referendums was 57 per cent, easily surpassing the 50 per cent quorum needed to validate the vote -- to express their deep dissatisfaction and disassociation with their increasingly beleaguered ruler. Couple today's result with Berlusconi's heavy loss in last month's local elections, and the message is resoundingly clear.

Italians, it seems, have finally woken up to what the rest of the world has known for years - that their prime minister is nothing but an orange-skinned, white-toothed buffoon, masquerading as an intelligent life-form. And they have had enough.

Emanuelle Degli Esposti is a freelance journalist currently living and working in London. She has written for the Sunday Express, the Daily Telegraph and the Economist online.

Emanuelle Degli Esposti is the editor and founder of The Arab Review, an online journal covering arts and culture in the Arab world. She also works as a freelance journalist specialising in the politics of the Middle East.

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“It was like a religious ceremony”: What happened at Big Ben’s final bong?

Both inside and outside Parliament, people gathered to hear the clock’s final midday chime before undergoing repairs.

“It’s just hacks everywhere,” a photographer sighs, jamming his lens through a gap in Parliament’s railings to try and get a closer look.

New Palace Yard, Parliament’s courtyard directly below Big Ben, is filling with amused-looking journalists, waiting for the MPs who have promised to hold a “silent vigil”, heads bowed, to mark Big Ben’s final chime before four years of silence while the tower’s repaired.

About four of them turn up. Two by accident.

It’s five minutes to twelve. Tourists are gathering outside Westminster Tube, as tourists do best. A bigger crowd fills Parliament Square. More people than expected congregate outside, even if it’s the opposite within the Palace. The world and his phone are gazing up at the sad, resigned clock face.


“It’s quite controversial, isn’t it?” one elderly woman in an anorak asks her friend. They shrug and walk off. “Do you know what is this?” an Italian tourist politely asks the tiny press pack, gesturing to the courtyard. No one replies. It’s a good question.

“This is the last time,” says another tourist, elated, Instagram-poised.

“DING DONG DING DONG,” the old bell begins.

Heads down, phones up.


It finishes the on-the-hour tune for the last time, and then gives its much-anticipated resignation statement:

“BONG. BONG. BONG. BONG. BONG. BONG. BONG. BONG. BONG. BONG. BONG. BONG.”

Applause, cheers, and even some tears.


But while the silly-seasoned journalists snigger, the crowd is enthusiastic.

“It’s quite emotional,” says David Lear, a 52-year-old carer from Essex, who came up to London today with his work and waited 45 minutes beneath Big Ben to hear it chime.

He feels “very, very sad” that the bell is falling silent, and finds the MPs’ vigil respectful. “I think lots of people feel quite strongly about it. I don’t know why they’re doing it. During the war it carries on, and then they turn it off for a health and safety reason.”

“I don’t know why they can’t have some speakers half way down it and just play the chime,” he adds. “So many tourists come especially to listen to the chime, they gather round here, getting ready for it to go – and they’re going to switch it off. It’s crazy.”

Indeed, most of the surrounding crowd appears to be made up of tourists. “I think that it was gorgeous, because I’ve never heard him,” smiles Cora, an 18-year-old German tourist. “It was a great experience.”

An Australian couple in their sixties called Jane and Gary are visiting London for a week. “It was like a religious ceremony, everybody went quiet,” laughs Gary. “I hope they don’t forget where they put the keys to start it again in four years’ time.”

“When we first got here, the first thing we did was come to see it,” adds Jane, who is also positive about the MPs who turned up to watch. “I think it’s good they showed a bit of respect. Because they don’t usually show much respect, do they?”

And, as MPs mouthing off about Big Ben are challenged on their contrasting reactions to Grenfell, that is precisely the problem with an otherwise innocent show of sentimentality.

Anoosh Chakelian is senior writer at the New Statesman.