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C o p y r i g h t 2 0 2 1 . F a i r l e i g h D i c k i n s o n U n i v e r s i t y P r e s s .

A l l r i g h t s r e s e r v e d . M a y n o t b e r e p r o d u c e d i n a n y f o r m w i t h o u t p e r m i s s i o n f r o m t h e p u b l i s h e r , e x c e p t f a i r u s e s p e r m i t t e d u n d e r U . S . o r a p p l i c a b l e c o p y r i g h t l a w .

EBSCO Publishing : eBook Collection (EBSCOhost) - printed on 4/10/2022 3:43 PM via UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA SANTA BARBARA AN: 3044628 ; Marie Orton, Graziella Parati, Ron Kubati.; Contemporary Italian Diversity in Critical and Fictional Narratives Account: s3351633.main.ehost

Contents

Acknowledgments vii

Introduction 1

Part 1: Diversity in Italy 13 Ero fra calda gente in un caldo paese / I was among warm folk in a

warm country 15 Vera Lúcia de Oliveira / Translated by Ashna Ali

“Stran(i)ero nella mia nazione”: Hip-Hop from Southern Alie- Nation to Afro-Italian Nation-Hood 23

Clarissa Clò and Enrico Zammarchi Reading “Albania” in Italy: Reception of Elvira Dones’s Piccola

guerra perfetta and Ron Kubati’s La vita dell’eroe 43 Daniele Comberiati

Migration, the Novel, and the Power of Fear: A Dialogical Perspective from Bakhtin to Lakhous 53

Lucia Re Clash of Civilizations Over an Elevator in Piazza Vittorio 69

Amara Lakhous Gendering the Giallo: Gender Roles in the Opus of Amara Lakhous 75

Ryan Calabretta-Sajder The Phoenix 95

Ubah Cristina Ali Farah Translated by Silvia Guslandi Creativity as a Feminist Practice: Intercultural Women’s

Associations in Italy 103 Wendy Pojmann

C o p y r i g h t 2 0 2 1 . F a i r l e i g h D i c k i n s o n U n i v e r s i t y P r e s s .

Contentsvi

“Arriving Too Soon Is a Mistake”: Amnesia in the Postcolonial Archives: The Antonaros Case 117

Fulvio Pezzarossa When Jacopo da Fiore Watched the Monkeys in the Treetops 129

Adrián N. Bravi / Translated by Kevin Regan-Maglione

Part 2: Diversity in Diversity 137 Le Mandorle Amare / The Bitter Almonds 139

Basir Ahang Translated by Ashna Ali Defying the Chromatic Norm: Strategies of Invisibility and Italian

Transdiasporic Blackness 147 Caterina Romeo

Reconfiguring “la donna del Sud”: Trans-Mediterranean Narratives 159 Marta Cariello

The Guest 171 Shirin Ramzanali Fazel

Questions of Authoriality and Literary Meticciato in Scrivere di Islam: Raccontare la diaspora 179

Simone Brioni Albania Mon Amour: Tales of Female Love and Duty in the Italian

Writings of Vorpsi, Dones, and Ibrahimi 199 Lidia Radi

Chiodi dell’esilio / The Nails of Exile 215 Gëzim Hajdari / Translated by James Walker

Beyond the Canon: Women’s Italian Writings of Migration 223 Lidia Curti

Kinships: Relations of Care and Experiences of Locality in Transnational Italian Narrative 237

Jennifer Burns The Two of Me 249

Gabriella Kuruvilla / Translated by Eleanor Paynter Translingual Literature and Multi-Belonging 263

Ron Kubati

Index 277

About the Contributors 283

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“Stran(i)ero nella mia nazione” Hip-Hop from Southern Alie-Nation

to Afro-Italian Nation-Hood

Clarissa Clò and Enrico Zammarchi

Hip-hop is arguably the most recognizable and commercially successful mu- sical genre today around the world. Its dominance is affirmed by the global popularity and ubiquity of familiar names of the entertainment industry whose tracks top billboard charts and hit parades. Born in the 1970s in New York’s South Bronx, hip-hop, among other things, represented a form of art and a style of protest and resistance enacted by African Americans and more in general by artists and activists of the Black diaspora, rebelling against oppressive living conditions and disenfranchised citizenship (Lipsitz 1996, 26; Rose 1994, 21). While the term is often used to refer only to rap music, hip-hop is fundamentally a transmedia practice comprising b-boying (break- dancing), graffiti writing, DJing, and MCing (emceeing). The relatively few technical resources needed to create and produce hip-hop in the early days— compensated by extraordinary levels of ingenuity, skill and craftsmanship— made it a street art accessible to American inner-city youth prior to its explo- sion into the mainstream. In the 1980s, the international circulation of U.S. movies where hip-hop was a central element of the plot—such as Wild Style (1983) and Beat Street (1984)—favored its global diffusion, and hip-hop started to be imitated and performed by youths worldwide.

The history of hip-hop in Italy, like elsewhere, unfolded with decidedly local connotations but followed a similar trajectory from rags to riches that has characterized the genre in the United States. Initially embraced by re- stricted and, in some cases, highly politicized youth subcultures, it was quickly seen as lucrative and appropriated by famous DJs and talent scouts.

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Clarissa Clò and Enrico Zammarchi24

Its best expressions, however, remained defiant even in the face of market and public acceptance. If in the early days hip-hop was produced by (white) Italian-born youth voicing their own grievances against a state indifferent to their own plight and needs, the genre has since been adopted by new genera- tions of Black Italians primarily of African descent and it has progressively become their platform for both social contestation and artistic expression.

In 2006 Italian-Egyptian rapper Amir Issaa released “Straniero nella mia nazione,” considered the first hip-hop song to expose the predicament of second-generations, children of immigrants who are born or raised in Italy but not considered fully Italian whether they are citizens or not. A decade later, in 2015, Italian-Nigerian Tommy Kuti adapted Amir’s concept proudly and playfully rapping that he was not “straniero,” a foreigner in Italy, but rather “stra-nero,” super-black, thus fully embracing and flaunting his black- ness as distinctive of his Italian identity. In this essay we consider the work of Afro-Italian hip-hop artists and their increasing visibility on the national music scene. Quite aware of the perils and potentials of their diversity, to- day’s rappers—who include established talents like Italian-Tunisian Ghali— capitalize on it, while also moving beyond confining categorizations. We argue that their work belongs as much to recent international music trends as to an Italian lineage that can be traced back to historic 1990s groups like Sangue Misto (Mixed Blood), all the while challenging traditional notions of Italianness and re-imagining a new nation-hood.

Unlike American hip-hop, where the issue of race has always been cen- tral, the limited academic literature on Italian hip-hop initially demonstrated little attention to questions of racial and ethnic diversity, and the problemat- ization of the notion of italianità (Italianness) was not usually considered a relevant element of discussion.1 We believe that the study of Italian hip-hop, from early origins to later developments, has much to contribute to the under- standing of Italian identity today, one defined simultaneously, if controver- sially, by multiple overlapping factors, including Italy’s contested North/ South divisions, its recent history as a country of immigration, and its older but enduring pasts of colonialism and emigration (Fiore 2017; Gabaccia 2000; Lombardi-Diop and Romeo 2012; Parati 2005; Parati and Tamburri 2011; Verdicchio 1997).

“STRANIERO NELLA MIA NAZIONE” PART 1: SOUTHERN ALIE-NATION

In Italy the 1990s were without a doubt the most important decade for the development and affirmation of hip-hop culture. In a few years, hip-hop moved from the radically militant arena of the centri sociali to a more main- stream legitimization, marked by its acceptance by national media, major

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“Stran(i)ero nella mia nazione” 25

record labels, and by the increasing economic revenues that came with both (Mitchell 2001). In a transitional and turbulent period typified by operation Mani pulite (Clean Hands)—the nationwide judicial investigation into Italy’s political corruption that led to a massive turnover in the ruling class—and the subsequent emergence of Milanese entrepreneur Silvio Berlusconi on the political stage, hip-hop proved initially to offer oppositional youth subcul- tures, especially those tied to the radical Left, creative ammunition to contest the status quo. Meanwhile, the increasing arrivals of African and Middle Eastern migrants in the mid-1980s started to gradually challenge traditional notions of italianità that would be reflected in the music repertoire of Italian hip-hop and reggae groups, especially from the South (Scarparo & Suther- land Stevenson 2018). By the mid-1990s the presence of migrant commu- nities was visible in many parts of Italian society. Substituting Italians in jobs that they no longer wanted to perform, migrants provoked the angry reaction of conservative right-wing movements, and were often accused of stealing jobs and undermining the white, Christian roots of European culture.2 In the face of this shifting social and political situation, music, and hip-hop in particular, became an important site of counter-discourse.3

In its early iterations, Italian hip-hop, often written and performed in local dialect, was mobilized by Southern Italian crews to question the myth of national unification and homogeneity. Official historiography describes the process of nation-building as an epic tale where the country’s unification represents the ending point of a process initiated during the Italian Renais- sance; in this respect, Italy often stands as the birthplace of Western modern humanistic values (Forlenza and Thomassen 2016). This idealistic represen- tation has often been questioned by Italian studies scholars and historians (Dainotto 2007; Dickie 1999; Guerri 2010; Lumley and Morris 1997; Schnei- der 1998), who described the process of unification as traumatic and violent, rather than romantic and harmonious. Similar critiques emerged in the arts, and in the regional music scenes, where the use of local dialects implied the willingness to affirm a separate, “countercultural” identity (Vacca 2012), proudly perpetrated by “internal others” (Verdicchio 1997, 100) who did not want to surrender to the hegemonic imposition of the Italian standard lan- guage.

In the early 1990s, Southern Italian hip-hop artists were fully invested in this battle, and rapping in dialect quickly became one of the points of major scholarly interest.4 Not only did Southern Italian rappers manifest their alien- ation with respect to the rest of the Italian society: their refusal became a way to seek solidarity with those non-European migrants who were and are still being similarly mistreated by Italian institutions. Southern Italian groups like Nuovi Briganti, Almamegretta, Comitato, and 99 Posse, all strongly tied to the Italian experience of centri sociali,5 noted the similarities between the process of racialization that had previously been applied to Southern Italian

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internal migrants, and the rhetorical strategies used to single out African migrants. In songs like “Unificazione = falsificazione” (Unification = Falsifi- cation), “Sono siciliano” (I Am Sicilian) and “Fottuto terrone” (Fucking Southerner), Sicily-based Nuovi Briganti rejected the importance of national figures like Giuseppe Garibaldi and Vittorio Emanuele II, while simultane- ously demystifying the self-awarded purity of Northern Italians. Instead, Nu- ovi Briganti drew an alliance between Southerners and non-European mi- grants by stating: “Nero amico, qua la mano. Solidale con l’uomo africano, sono un fottuto terrone fiero" (My Black friend, shake my hand. In solidarity with the African man, I’m a proud, fucking terrone.)” Much like the n- word—which has historically been re-appropriated by African Americans to express racial and social camaraderie—the derogatory term applied to South- ern Italians, terrone, was taken by Nuovi Briganti, who transformed it into a proud statement of Southern identity, using it in solidarity with African mi- grants.

The same year, a rap crew from Milan called Comitato released an album titled Immigrato (1993), where the band criticized the short memory of those Italians of Southern origins who had forgotten what being a migrant had meant for their ancestors, and who were now themselves insulting African migrants. In the title-track, Comitato sang:

If we have good memory, [we can remember that] many came from Africa to our Belpaese. The reason is the same: dreams, hopes, and very few demands. [ . . . ] That son [of a Southern immigrant] has almost forgotten the wrongs he suffered as an immigrant, because in this society he has integrated himself, together with his sons. He forgot the rest: bad indifference that unleashes violence, disdain [ . . . ] [The African migrant today] is subject to more offenses, marginalized, left in smaller and smaller ghettoes; then people start calling him vu cumprà, vu lavà, terroni and Africans. [ . . . ] We Italians used to be mistreated, teased, disliked when abroad. What did those past years teach us? Let’s think about what we used to be . . . a population of immigrants!

The importance of these examples stands both in their lyrics and in the musical style that they exhibited. While Comitato’s music drew heavily from U.S. East Coast hip-hop styles, sampling beats that made them sound like an Italian answer to Public Enemy, bands like Nuovi Briganti and the Neapoli- tan Almamegretta mixed music traditions that originated in Southern Italy— such as the tamurriata and the tarantella—with Northern African percus- sions and Arabic vocal techniques (Inserra 2017, 124–126). As Dawson and Palumbo (2005, 170) emphasize, by “recuperating such relics of the pan- Mediterranean cultures of the past, [these bands] lay claim to the African roots of regional culture in Italy.”

The juxtaposition of Southern subalternity with the one of non-European migrants is not limited to the cases of Nuovi Briganti and Comitato. Indeed,

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“Stran(i)ero nella mia nazione” 27

Tom Behan (2007), Joseph Pugliese (2008), and Marcello Messina (2016) have explored the politics of Neapolitan band 99 Posse, concluding that while the band’s early songs articulated Southern alienation, “in the wider context of global and national social problems,” in more recent years “the condition of Naples and Southern Italy appears to be the main prism through which the global social problems are observed” (Messina 2016, 132), with obvious references to the so-called migrant crisis of the new millennium, but also to the emergence of Italy’s second-generations. All groups discussed so far have played an important role in the history of Italian oppositional hip- hop and in linking different national and international musical, social, and political experiences, but one that more than the others proved to be influen- tial for the emergence of a new generation of Afro-Italian hip-hop artists is Sangue Misto.

Formed in the multicultural university town of Bologna in the early 1990s, Sangue Misto’s debut album SxM was released in 1994 under the local record label Century Vox. The significance of the album for the Italian hip-hop scene stemmed not only from how it sounded, but rather from the fact that it was released immediately after the disbandment of the Pantera, a nationwide student movement that conducted months-long occupations of universities across Italy in protest against the Italian government’s education reform (Simeone 2010). In their lyrics, Sangue Misto communicated the idea of a youth that was feeling unwelcome in its own city, crushed by the repres- sion that young people in Italy were facing against the Pantera student movement and, more widely, in the centri sociali scene. In songs such as “Clima di tensione” (Tense Times) Sangue Misto claimed to be in a state of constant threat where the “state” was certainly psychological and, symboli- cally, a reference to the oppressive nature of the Italian nation-state. The most iconic anthem in Sangue Misto’s record was “Lo straniero” (The Foreigner) a song that was later sampled and re-signified multiple times by Afro-Italian rappers.6

In “Lo straniero” Sangue Misto’s MC Neffa raps: “At school, as a kid, my classmates called me Moroccan, terrone. [They’d say] Shut up! Go back to where you came from!” Once again, identified as a terrone, and associated with North Africans, Neffa is subsequently insulted because of his Southern origin, revealing how the divisions and hierarchy between different regional populations within Italy are still very acute. In the verses that follow, Sangue Misto’s distrustful attitude becomes the main reason for the lack of participa- tion in the life of the nation. Juxtaposing his role in Italian society with the one of a generic “they,” MC Neffa states:

I’m number zero. [They have] cautious faces when the foreigner comes in. [They are] freaking out, [they are] really nervous. [I] dress with dark clothes and bang my head against the wall. I’m nobody’s friend, rest assured: I’m not

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into fashion, I don’t go to the [soccer] stadium, I’m not in any political parties, and you can be sure that I’m not the average Italian.

MC Neffa frames his alienation with respect to the rest of Italian society, marking a clear distance from the norm and choosing instead to stay on the margins. This self-imposed exile proved prophetic not only for Southern or inner-city youth, but also for second-generations kids.7

MC Neffa’s introspective verses serve to set the stage for bandmate MC Deda’s critique of the resulting institutional reactions: namely, repression. Deda raps:

Repression gets me down, [it] crushes me, when the cop punches me in the face. For me, the [Italian] State is just a state of menace. When I see the Tunisian selling drugs on the street corner, the black [prostitute] smacked by the pimp, I know it’s all “made in Italy.” So, don't ask me if I vote for Forza Italia. My position: I’m a foreigner in my own nation.

In just a few verses, MC Deda points out some of Italy’s major contradic- tions. On the one hand, institutions limit freedom of expression by violently repressing discordant opinions (represented here by the cop who punches MC Deda in the face). On the other hand, the same institutions turn a blind eye to underground social problems such as drug dealing and prostitution; indeed, as MC Deda denounces, for the Italian state those issues are secon- dary, or even convenient. Since drug dealing and prostitution are crimes that tend to be associated with foreigners—because of the conditions of structural racism and unemployment silently imposed by the Italian state—the latter will gain in prestige and national authority when the foreigner turns out to be the one who is guilty. In this respect, the involvement of Italian organized crime—as MC Deda speculatively hints at when he raps that he knows “it’s all made in Italy”—further emphasizes the ambiguities within the Italian state. In contrast with the nation’s majority—who, as MC Deda correctly predicted, voted for Silvio Berlusconi’s Forza Italia in the 1994 general election—Sangue Misto recognized itself as closer to foreigners, ultimately declaring its sense of estrangement, and becoming strangers in its own na- tion.

Just like any other musical genre, Italian hip-hop has been facing the same changes that affected Italian society in the last two decades. One of these major changes can be seen in the increasing number not only of immi- grants, but also of people who were born from immigrant families and were raised in Italy, the so-called second-generation Italians. The inherently non- Italian origins of hip-hop made this subculture more welcoming towards inputs coming both from foreigners and second-generation Italians. The next section of the paper will discuss original forms of artistic production devel-

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“Stran(i)ero nella mia nazione” 29

oped by second-generation Italians, focusing on hip-hop and on the promi- nent case of Italian-Egyptian artist Amir Issaa.

“STRANIERO NELLA MIA NAZIONE” PART 2: AMIR ISSAA IN-BETWEEN GENERATIONS

Approaching the development of rap among non-white Italian artists from a chronological perspective, the first rapper to meet some public success out- side of underground circles is Amir Issaa. Born in Rome in 1978 from an Egyptian father and an Italian mother, Amir has been active as a graffiti writer and rapper since the early 1990s, but he released his debut solo album, Uomo di prestigio (Prestigious Man) only in 2006. Amir’s lyrics have often revolved around the topic of citizenship for second-generation Italians, but equally important as his contribution to the Italian hip-hop scene is Amir’s personal history, narrated in a recently published autobiography entitled Vivo per questo (This is What I Live For, Issaa 2017).

To Amir, the mixed ethnic origins that he carries were only marginal while growing up in Rome in the early 1980s. Indeed, Amir’s childhood was much more marked by the repeated incarcerations of his father, who was accused and jailed multiple times for drug dealing, a situation that forced his mother to work several jobs to maintain the family. Spending his days be- tween the peripheral neighborhood of Torpignattara and Piazzale Flaminio— a more central square of Rome and, in the late 1980s, a hotspot for the development of alternative subcultures—Amir grew up surrounded by the kind of multicultural youth that was unknown to other, smaller and more provincial realities in Italy. Discussing the youth in Piazzale Flaminio, Amir reports:

Some of the kids came from Francophone African countries like Gabon. [ . . . ] they spoke two or three languages and knew more about hip-hop culture than we did. [ . . . ] Skin color was not an issue in Piazzale Flaminio: what mattered was how much you knew about hip-hop, what you could do, and what your contribution was with respect to the artistic ecosystem that was developing. I had spent all my life feeling different, and suddenly I was way less different than the others. (Issaa 2017, 102)

Amir’s interest in hip-hop culture was initially favored by his friendship with other kids who had hobbies such as skateboarding and graffiti writing, which were not yet popular among the Italian youth in the late 1980s. One of his best friends and mentor, Napal, was “twice an immigrant,” an Italian who had emigrated with his parents first to Germany and then Australia, where he was considered a “wog,” a sort of “terrone,” only to experience the same

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sense of foreignness and non-belonging upon his return to Rome (Issaa 2017, 60).

Interestingly enough, Amir’s alias in the world of graffiti writing was “Er Cina” (The Chinese), a nickname given to him by his friends because of his almond-shaped eyes (Issaa 2017, 55). This is particularly significant because it signals that, even within the more liberal and welcoming environment of the emerging Roman graffiti and hip-hop scene, Amir’s physical appearance stood as a sign of racial difference that would later become central in his career as a rapper. In several songs, Amir discusses the idea of feeling alien- ated in Italian society. For example, Amir’s “Straniero nella mia nazione” (2006) plays with the legacy of Sangue Misto’s “Lo straniero,” reinterpreting its meaning in light of the condition of second-generation Italians. As a spokesperson for those second- and third- generation kids who see their legal status as Italian citizens indefinitely postponed or denied, Amir boasts his father’s immigrant origin, rapping that he is “proud of my name and my mixed blood.” In line with hip-hop’s traditional braggadocio, he foresees himself being elected as the mayor of Rome, residing at the Campidoglio, because “I want to make money like all the presidents.”

In 2014, Amir further reprised Sangue Misto’s denunciation, partially shifting its significance. No longer just a generic sense of alienation ex- pressed by the (white) Italian youth, the sense of exclusion was now directed at migrants and second-generation Italians, denouncing the institutional re- strictions imposed by the Italian law on citizenship based on jus sanguinis, right of blood and lineage.8 The title-track for Amir’s 2014 mixtape Ius Music sparked controversy among Italy’s right-wing parties because the lyr- ics were considered aggressive and anti-patriotic (Issaa 2017, 207; Janeczek 2014). In the song, Amir raps:

My brothers are proud Africans, Maghrebians, Chinese, and Filipinos who have their feet here, and their blood from other countries. [ . . . ] Mine is not a race: mine is a tribe. Those who are always at gunpoint: that is my crew. My people are tired of being accused, of being considered dangerous. [ . . . ] And there’s no excuse when ignorance is vast, if being Italian is only on paper, if you feel out of place in this situation, and you become a foreigner in your own nation.

The track describes the frustration of second-generation Italians—and, in particular, the youngest ones—who are tired of waiting for legislative actions from the Italian institutions and are not considered fully Italians even when they have the correct papers. Later in the song, Amir brings his frustration one step forward, refusing the definition of hyphenated Italian and denounc- ing the insensibility of Italian politics vis-à-vis such an urgent issue. In the video clip, Amir is shown in the context of his former school, acting in the role of a professor who, after having walked past pictures of Martin Luther

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“Stran(i)ero nella mia nazione” 31

King, Gandhi, Malcolm X, and Rosa Parks, proceeds to lecture before a class of multiracial students. The clip also features Italian-Moroccan member of parliament Khalid Chouki acting in the role of the school principal. Chouki had been in charge of following second-generations demands on behalf of the Italian Partito Democratico (PD) and his cameo in Ius Music, along with Amir’s forceful rap, provoked quite a few negative reactions on social media, reversing the original message with a barrage of accusations of fear monger- ing and trafficking in anti-Italian hate, which Helena Janeczek aptly labelled “squadrismo 2.0,” a fascist squad tactic for the digital era (Issaa 2017, 207).

Sobering lessons like this have prompted Amir to shift his activism in a different direction, not necessarily shying away from taking strong stands against racism, especially when perpetrated by official institutions, such as the decision to deny public school meals to children of immigrants by the League-led municipality of Lodi,9 but more geared toward a form of “con- scientization” through song writing workshops in schools and colleges in Italy and around the world, including the USA, teaching rap lyrics in Italian to new generations of global citizens.10 In the wake of the killing of George Floyd in police custody in Minneapolis and the subsequent Black Lives Matter protests across the U.S. and the world during the summer of 2020, Amir penned the lyrics for “Non respiro” (I Can’t Breathe). The song was created in collaboration with Afro-Italian artists David Blank and Davide Shorty and was accompanied by a sobering video in which diverse subjects look directly into the camera in close-up shots while being progressively choked by a black cloth wrapped around their faces.11

FROM “STRANIERO” TO “STRA-NERO”: AFRO-ITALIAN HIP-HOP IS THE NEW BLACK

While Amir belongs to an “in-between” generation of rappers and his experi- ence bridges old school Italian rap with a more contemporary and contami- nated one, younger second- and third- generation artists growing up in Italy in the new millennium have taken different approaches. An interesting case came from a now-defunct independent record label called Mancamelanina Records. The name of the record label translates to Lack-of-Melanin Records, and its members’ sarcastic motto is “Non sono straniero, sono solo stra-nero!” (I’m not a foreigner, I’m just extra-black!) Founded in 2015 in the city of Brescia, this label was the first example of an all-Afro-Italian project, and its mission, according to its website, was to “portare un po’” di “Melani- na lì dove manca.”12 The artists of this label tended to mix different music genres, going from hip-hop and rap to reggae and dancehall, with the idea of crafting a sound that was modern and yet brought together the various influ- ences of African and Caribbean music.

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The most successful artist within the label was an Italian-Nigerian rapper called Tommy Kuti (né Tolulope Olabode Kuti). Born in Nigeria in 1989, Tommy Kuti moved to Italy at the age of two, growing up in northern Italy before taking part in a series of educational exchange programs that led him to study in the United States and in England, where he obtained a degree in Communication Science. Upon his return to Italy, Kuti—who was known at the time as Mista Tolu—released a few songs and video clips via YouTube where he raps in Italian. In “Welcome to Italy,” Tommy Kuti starts the song stating: “I talk about the discomfort that I witness in every city, I feel like I’m the son of Italy, even though I wasn’t born here.” In a more sarcastic and upbeat track called “Faccio rap” (I Do Rap), he samples the intro sequence from the 1967 Walt Disney animated movie The Jungle Book. Dressed up as a baby in a cradle that has “Made in Italy” written on it, in the video clip Kuti compares the silence of the jungle being broken by the unfamiliar sound of Mowgli in the Disney movie to the impact he is about to have on the Italian music scene. Over the course of the song, Kuti both shows his pride for being black—claiming that he knows Italians would love to have “a darker skin tone”—and then he goes back to affirm that Black Italians exist, rapping in English that he is a “n**** made in Italy.”

In 2017, Tommy Kuti released a new video on YouTube. The song was simply titled “#AFROITALIANO,” and it was regarded as the contemporary musical manifesto for Afro-Italians and, in part, for second-generation Ital- ians. In the lyrics of the song, Tommy Kuti references some of the clichés identifying the Italian population; he discusses how he cheers every time Black Italian-Ghanaian soccer player Mario Balotelli scores a goal, and states that he cannot eat his pasta without sprinkling some Italian Parmesan cheese on it. Moreover, he declares his love for Italy by claiming that he celebrates Italy’s National Day (on June 2), sending pictures to his Nigerian relatives surrounded by Italian flags while eating pizza. The black-and-white video clip for the song features not just Kuti, but also scenes taken from multiracial classrooms in Italian schools; here we see once again how the hope for integration—for lack of a better term—and recognition of the com- plex identities embodied by Afro-Italians starts from a very young age, with- in the walls of Italy’s public schools. In the ending scenes of the video clip, Kuti is shown lying on a sofa, in what appears as a typical psychotherapy session. The psychologist—interpreted by Italy’s most popular contemporary rapper, Fabri Fibra—asks Tommy Kuti one of the most common questions: “Do you feel you are more African or Italian?” Kuti avoids what seems like an absolute dichotomy answering: “I’m Afro-Italian, because I’m sick and tired of having others deciding what I am and what I am not. I’m too African to be just Italian, and too Italian to be just African.”13 Kuti has recently published a new autobiography entitled Ci rido sopra (I Laugh About It, 2019) in which he deploys the same decisive ironic tone to define his experi-

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ence as an Afro-Italian in the face of the racist injuries inflicted on his generation by the likes of Matteo Salvini, leader of the xenophobic League party, and his followers.

Among the most well-known Afro-Italian rappers today is undoubtedly Ghali, born in Milan in 1993 of Tunisian parents. Raised primarily by his mother, his story resonates, at least biographically, with Amir’s. In “Ninna Nanna” (Lullaby)—the first of his songs to reach stratospheric views on YouTube, currently more than 110 million, and the track opening his first album, simply entitled Album, as in a collection of carefully curated photo- graphic snapshots—he calls himself “son of a janitor with a father in jail.” If absolutely mind-boggling, Ghali’s extraordinary success in the past few years is also completely homegrown. After a disappointing run-in with the Italian institutional music industry when he was part of a group called Troupe d’Elite, Ghali decided to pursue a solo career, self-producing his work and attending to his music business with entrepreneurial flair sur- rounded only by trusted close friends, like the producer Charlie Charles (né Paolo Monachetti) and the writer Antonio Dikele DiStefano. Distinguished by genuine, heartfelt, often autobiographical lyrics, chiseled with understated and perhaps deceivingly easy skill, mixing Italian with Arabic, French, and the language of Tunisian immigrants to create a singular patois, Ghali’s commercial feat is also the product of a savvy use of social media (YouTube, Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, Spotify, TikTok), a series of highly original, polished and professionally executed music videos, and a maniacal attention to fashion, style, and aesthetics.

Practicing a subgenre of hip-hop defined as trap—a sort of gangsta rap originated in Atlanta in the early 2000s—Ghali’s musical style encompasses pop and world music influences beyond the confines of a single category. Album, whose cover was created by the internationally renowned Italian street artist Ozmo, is proudly and unapologetically dedicated, like many of his lyrics and singles’ covers, to his mother, with such tenderness and vulner- ability that reveal the extent of the respect and gratitude for the sacrifices she made: “I thank my mother, the person who gives me strength in the most fragile moments and light in the dark ones [ . . . ] Growing up she made sure that I wouldn’t miss what I did not have. She taught me to love and respect women who are my greatest source of inspiration.” It is hard to imagine a twenty-something youth, let alone a rapper, so secure in his identity and masculinity to take such emotional risks. This is not to say that he cannot also be playfully manipulating hip-hop’s stereotypes and self-referentiality, or act his age, with frequent allusions to smoking pot and hanging out with his “frate” (bros).

In “Ninna Nanna” Ghali raps, “I came out of dirt/from a stable to a star/ I’ll buy a villa for my mom/ and then I will think of Africa.” In “Ricchi dentro” (Rich Inside), the second track in his album, he sings, “Mother,

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seriously, did you expect all of this?/ We were already rich inside/ But, God, it feels great to say to you: I told you so!” Questions of racism, intolerance, and immigration are not necessarily dealt head-on in Album, where Ghali’s flows speak of his day-to-day snippets of life and already includes a hybri- dized experience made of Arabic and Italian, Western and Islamic cultures mixing together, as in “Habibi” (“I love you” in Arabic) and “Pizza Kebab,” where he drops the lines “the last ones will be the first [ . . . ]/ Black or white race/ what’s a VISA in the middle of the galaxy?” Perhaps “Ora d’aria” (Outdoor Time) gets closer to including some militant lines, when Ghali replies to a seemingly customary question directed his way: “Are you asking me if I am Italian or Muslim? [ . . . ] Either we are terrorists or parasites.”

While Album is personal and introspective, leaving politics aside for the most part, other singles like “Cara Italia,” “Wily Wily,” and “Dende,” are far more overt and militant. In “Cara Italia” (Dear Italy), originally written for a Vodafone commercial, and which became “the most watched music video of all time on the nation’s YouTube” (Mackay 2018), he asks, “what kind of politics is this/what is the difference between left and right?/ Ministers change, but not what they feed us.” The most effective line is the tongue-in- cheek jingle, “oh eh oh, when they tell me to go home/ oh eh oh I answer: I am already here/ oh eh oh I love you dear Italy/ oh eh oh, you are my other half.”

It was Ghali himself to provide the exegesis of these lyrics for his fans in a post on Instagram, accompanied by a picture of himself smiling with his face covered by two hands, one white and one black, revealing all his love and respect for his country, but also expecting Italy to rise to the occasion on the global stage and its domestic affairs.14 Mixing different languages and idiomatic expressions, “Wily, Wily,” an exclamation of disapproval in Tuni- sian Arabic, is more forceful in contesting facile stereotypes against “oth- ers”15 (“Io sono un negro terrorista/culo bianco, ladro bangla, muso giallo”) perpetrated by the media and the institutions with “the Italian people who let themselves be swindled.” Accompanied by an evocative video filmed by director Martina Pastori in Jordan, Ghali’s words represent a sort of “j’accuse”: “You think that Islam equals Isis.” In “Dende,” titled after a manga and anime character from the animated series Dragon Ball, he is at its most explicit when he provocatively challenges a rival by arguing: “You will beat me the day that you’ll see Salvini [the leader of the xenophobic League] at my concerts.”

In a famous Facebook post a month preceding his first interview with the “trapper” for La Repubblica in the summer of 2017, writer Roberto Saviano provocatively called Ghali “one of the major poets in the Italian language, a rap poet” because “in his verses there is a rare poetic style, the echo of words’ poetic and ritualistic sacrality.”16 It is a compliment to Ghali’s skillful use of the Italian language and his contamination with other jargons, but it is

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also a reminder that, “Italy is changing and its rappers are telling its new reality in far deeper and complex ways than its politicians, journalists, com- mentators” (Saviano 2017a). In La Repubblica’s article, Saviano and Anto- nio Dikele DiStefano agree that without being didactic and pedantic, Ghali’s poetic rap will tell more about Islam to Italian youth and kids who are growing up with his music than any other media and outlet (2017). In his work Ghali’s intention remains subtle, ludic, spirited, and nuanced. In inter- views he is reluctant to be pigeonholed in a political category, what he has to say, he says it in his flows, for him “music is a weapon” (Alovisi 2017, 28) and should be used wisely, because it can change lives, his and those of his listeners.

NEW KIDS IN THE HOOD

There is no question that the music and transmedia production of Afro-Italian rappers and trappers in Italy today are trendy and influential and are having an impact as much in the way in which they are created and delivered outside the confines of the established channels and control of the cultural industry as in the way they are received and re-circulated by youth and kids as young as tweens (Contrino 2017). The contested victory of rapper Mahmood at the 2019 Sanremo Music Festival—the country’s most popular song contest and the bastion of Italian musical tradition—may be considered the industry cav- ing in to hip-hop, but it also serves to reaffirm larger postcolonial transforma- tions already in motion in Italian society (Ardizzoni 2020). And yet, the rap and trap music of this new generation is significant on its own merits and not simply on account of the multiracial and multicultural Italian identities that these artists embody within the nationhood.

The examples provided by Tommy Kuti, Ghali, and others, including a small but steady cohort of female rappers,17 are critical because they have proven capable of circumnavigating “the barriers often erected by Italian mainstream media” (Fusaro 2017). Instead, they take advantage of the pos- sibilities created by social media to develop a new type of DIY attitude. Unlike the ultimately self-segregating DIY style embraced in the 1990s by Southern posses (Branzaglia, Pacoda, & Solaro 1992), second-generation Italian rappers have been “quick to capitalize” on their own diversity and to use it as a new tool of promotion via the help of the Internet (Fusaro 2017). The self-managed, entrepreneurial nature of these artists is definitely a con- sequence of the extraordinary economic success met by hip-hop culture in the past four decades both in the United States and abroad. While in some cases hip-hop has become “the lingua franca for popular and political youth culture around the world” (Morgan and Bennett 2011, 179), its assimilation by the entertainment industry has also been crucial for hip-hop’s own evolu-

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tion both in terms of sound and style. Because of its capacity to connect with marginalized ethnic minorities across the official borders of the nation-state, hip-hop has developed a global nation-hood where artists and audiences easily communicate regardless of geographical and institutional limitations.

While Afro-Italian artists' inspirations and references come from a larger transnational context encompassing a global “hood” that has seen the prolife- ration, imitation, reproduction, appropriation, and remixing of Afrocentric and “black-identified” cultures (Osumare 2007, 62). Nonetheless, it is impor- tant to understand their contributions also within a historical national arc. Their relation to previous rap music in Italy, which represented different sets of experimentations, creativities, and rebellions (Ivic 2010), may not always be explicit, but the symbolic significance of such hip-hop archival genealogy is helpful in order to identify commonalities and departures and trace the changes and continuities that have occurred within Italian society and its various “others.” Indeed, popular music and hip-hop in particular can provide us with more and different insights about Italy’s transformations since the 1980s than other genres and media which have received more attention, like literature and cinema, and constitute an important resource.

Beyond the confines of the nation-hood strictly defined by territorial boundaries, it is useful to also situate second-generation Italian hip-hop, like its combative 1990s predecessor, in a diasporic framework that accounts for both previous transmigrations, material and cultural, and current cross-polli- nations. In this respect, it is notable that one of the most important specialists of early Italian hip-hop vernaculars has been Italian-American scholar Joseph Sciorra, whose transcultural work in connecting, transmitting, and preserving this genre through international gatherings and personal archives is invalu- able and recognized among fans and artists across continents (Sciorra 2002, 2011).18 Italian hip-hop, old and new, has drawn substantially from global black hip-hop, but the other way around is also true. Italian hip-hop artists collaborate with their peers around the world and command their own influ- ence. Atlanta-based trap music claimed to be influencing Afro-Italians and other Italian trappers include artists like Gucci Mane and Donald Glover Jr.’s Childish Gambino, whose names clearly allude to the allure of Italian gang- ster luxury lifetyle. The cross-fertilization between Italian and African Americans is a well-documented love affair (Gennari 1996, 2017; Cinotto 2014), which continues and amplifies in the diaspora as much as on Italian soil. Ghali’s success in Tunisia and elsewhere in Europe and the Middle East (Alovisi 2017, 29; Al Habash 2017) is indicative of the complex cultural circuits of knowledge production and dissemination. These works reach where politics cannot, and journalistic as well as scholarly interest for these artists has been gradually emerging (Ardizzoni 2020; Dolesinski 2021; Giuli- ani 2019, 224–240). The savvy use of digital and social media has generated networks, influences, and conversations among artists and their fans that are

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not limited by the vagaries and restrictions of politics or the traditional music industry, but that transcend them both.19 The example of second-generation Afro-Italian rappers is one of artistic entrepreneurship and initiative beyond the narrow boundaries of institutional music industry and political structures. They are interested in building their own transborder contacts and collabora- tions to bring back home. Like Ghali in “Cara Italia,” who is “happy to make music for kids,”20 they are proud to reach younger audiences. Future genera- tions have already intuited their value. Perhaps these kids will save the world next or save us from ourselves.

NOTES

1. Most of the early academic studies on Italian hip-hop preferred instead to focus on the phenomenon of the posses and its development within the realm of the centri sociali. See Branzaglia, Pacoda, & Solaro 1992; Canevacci et al. 1993; Mitchell 1995; Mitchell 2001; Plastino 1996; Wright 2000.

2. For a sharp criticism of this attitude in favor of an inclusive approach to account for “European others” see El-Tayeb 2011.

3. See Mitchell (1995; 2001) and Pacoda (1996; 2000). 4. See, for instance, Androutsopoulos and Scholz (2003), Mitchell (2000), and Scholz

(2005 and 2006). 5. Following Santoro and Solaroli’s definition, centri sociali can be described as an espe-

cially European reality consisting of: “abandoned urban sites such as government buildings [ . . . ] that [once squatted] were consequently converted into community-based laboratories of cultural innovation and artistic creativity, offering concerts, films, dance courses and a variety of informational services such as discussion circles on political antagonism or drug use and language classes for immigrants” (2007, 482).

6. “Straniero” in Italian could be translated either as “stranger” or “foreigner,” depending on the meaning intended by users, and can indicate someone feeling alienated from their own country, or someone who comes from another country. We have chosen to retain Santoro and Solaroli’s translation of Sangue Misto’s song “Lo straniero” as “foreigner” (2007, 478).

7. The importance of Sangue Misto’s influence on second-generations is also affirmed by Afro-Italian writer Antonio Dikele DiStefano who cites “Lo straniero” and rap music in general as fundamental during difficult periods in his childhood and adolescence. See https://youtu.be/ Yo3hhv47u18.

8. For a discussion of second-generation children of immigrants in Italy, their legal predic- ament and cultural activism, see Clò 2012 and Thomassen 2010.

9. See Polchi 2018. 10. In recent years Amir has travelled frequently to colleges in the United States. Though

the East Coast remains closer, last year he also travelled to Ohio, Colorado, and California. 11. The video is available at https://youtu.be/GB4MngjiiBY. On the making of the song and

the biases of the Italian music industry regarding race see Amir Issaa’s July 2020 interview in Griot (Affricot 2020).

12. “Bring some melanin where it is lacking.” While the website is not accessible anymore, the description of the project can still be found on their Facebook page: https:// www.facebook.com/mancamelanina/

13. The absurdity of such questions, meant to force bicultural children into making an impossible choice has been explored in literature as well. In her famous short story “Salsicce” (Sausages), Somali-Italian writer Igiaba Scego unmasks a similar nonsensical conundrum: “Quella domanda odiosa sulla mia identità del cazzo! Più somala? Più italiana? Forse ¾ somala e ¼ italiana? O forse è vero tutto il contrario? Non so rispondere! Non mi sono mai ‘frazionata’ prima d’ora.” (That horrible question about my fucking identity! Am I more Somali? Am I

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Clarissa Clò and Enrico Zammarchi38

more Italian? Maybe ¾ Somali and ¼ Italian? Or maybe the opposite is true? I can’t answer! I have never “fractioned” myself before.) (2005, 28). See Clò 2012, 278–279.

14. On January 24, 2018 Ghali wrote on Instagram: “Cara Italia,/ Ti dedico questa canzone che ho ideato tornando dal mio primo viaggio in America./ Non hai nulla da invidiare a questi grandi Paesi che vediamo nei film./ Spero però che tu non ti offenda per aver risaltato i tuoi difetti, sappiamo tutti che sei bellissima ma questo serve a migliorarsi. / Cara Italia,/ Ho scritto ‘sei la mia dolce metà’ perché è davvero così./ Tu mi hai visto nascere, mi hai cresciuto e ora che in ogni tuo angolo gridano il mio nome come posso voltarti le spalle?/ Tu che sei la dimora dei miei desideri, il letto dei miei sogni./ Infinite le giornate di dolore tra le tue mura e infinite le notti di rabbia ma come potrei voltarti le spalle senza rimpianto?/ Cara Italia,/ Ti chiedo solo tre cose: /NON PARLARMI più di confini e non ti parlerò più con diffidenza. /NON SENTIR- TI inferiore e io mi sentirò all’altezza. /NON VEDERMI come un nemico e io ti vedrò come una sorella, un’amica, una mamma. /Spero che tu possa prendere in considerazione le mie parole. /Io T.V.B Cara Italia.” (Dear Italy,/ I dedicate to you this song, which I created as I was coming back from my first trip to America. /You are every bit as good as these great countries we see in movies. / I hope you won’t be offended because I highlighted your flaws, we all know you’re beautiful but this helps you become better./ Dear Italy,/ I wrote:— you are my better half because it is true. / You saw me being born, you raised me and now that from every corner people scream my name, how can I turn my back to you?/ You, the abode of my desires, the bed of my dreams./ Infinite painful days within your walls and infinite angry nights, but how could I turn my back without regretting it?/ Dear Italy,/ I ask of you only three things: /NEVER TALK TO ME again of borders and I will no longer speak with skepticism./DON’T FEEL inferior and I will measure up./ DON’T LOOK AT ME as an enemy and I will look at you as a sister, a friend, a mom./ I hope you will take my words into consideration. /I love you, Dear Italy). We have chosen to use Michela Ardizzoni’s translation from her article “On Rhythms and Rhymes” (2020, 6). All other translations are our own, unless noted. For Ghali’s post, see Schettino 2018.

15. “Io sono un negro terrorista/culo bianco, ladro bangla, muso giallo” (I am a black terrorist/ white ass, Bangladeshi thief, yellow face).

16. See Roberto Saviano’s May 4, 2017 Facebook post: https://www.facebook.com/ 17858286863/posts/10154596887936864/. Saviano’s subsequent article in La Repubblica was published on June 4, 2017 as “Ghali, il ragazzo della via rap che canta l’Islam e i migranti.”

17. Second-generation female hip-hop artists include Karima 2G, Chadia Rodriguez, Wii Houbabi, Doris, Lina Simons, and others. This is a topic that would require a full-length analysis, which is still lacking. Indeed, the contribution of women to Italian hip-hop has been historically disregarded. For a discussion of the work of Karima 2G in a feminist Afrofuturism perspective see Fabbri 2020.

18. See Amir Issaa’s personal tribute to Joseph Sciorra on the rapper’s Instagram: https:// www.instagram.com/p/Bkc4FSpgzcb/. Dr. Joseph Sciorra’s website italianrap.com, was for years the reference point of Italian hip-hop fans worldwide. This site and other parts of his personal archive, including all issues of the historic 1990s Italian underground hip-hop maga- zine Aelle/AL, are now housed in the San Diego State University’s Special Collections.

19. For an insider’s critique of the Italian music industry and its obsolete system see Zukar 2017.

20. See also Amir Issaa’s post in support of immigrant children in public schools: https:// www.instagram.com/p/Bo3VOkuC8PD/.

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