zecchinetta

This week there’s been an avalanche of news items addressing ‘Ndrangheta and declaring the group’s prominence on the world stage – as if by taking a long-simmering clan feud to the streets of Germany they’ve suddenly catapulted themselves into the organized crime Ivy League. Umm, newsflash, they were there already. They have been for a very long fucking time.

On yet another fieldwork trip to Sicily last winter I was introduced to ‘Ndrangheta. Having worked on research into the life in the Sicilian Mafia for some years now I have developed extraordinarily strong relationships with my research subjects. When I returned to Palermo last winter it was to spend my winter hols with these men and their families.

Since I started this little journal I haven’t bothered posting much about ‘Ndrangheta. There are a few reasons for this: no one was particularly interested in them (HBO are yet to make a series about them so Americans could care less); I’ve only been dealing with them for slightly under a year & hadn’t felt prepared to post about it online (especially when no one was all that interested); it’s only this summer that my ‘Ndrangheta relationships began to feel well established; and, finally, they’re the only research subjects who have ever attempted (and, I might add, succeeded) to scare the hell outta me…and I’m not easily scared when I’m in the field.

After the time I spent in Calabria this summer I felt ready to write about ‘Ndrangheta so I started working on a short introductory post. It’s been eclipsed somewhat by the fallout from the Duisburg killings & I’m working on changing the piece before I post it. Nonetheless, here’s the first of two posts about my ‘Ndrangheta relationships. I’m not gonna write anything substantial about these men, but I’m happy to post snippets of what I’ve experienced because right now I have no interest in publishing papers about the fieldwork I have done in Calabria. Firstly, ‘Ndrangheta is suddenly too sexy and I refuse to exoticize and make a spectacle of what I believe is a theoretically important examination of social life in the Mezzogiorno. Secondly, I have decided that it would be more prudent for me to wait until those involved are long gone – my life is more important to me than publishing an exotic, au courant, journal article in which I am forced to change so many facts that the theoretical framework is shifted and the entire analysis becomes, at best, second rate.

I came to be given the nickname Zecchinetta on my first crossing of the Straits of Messina from Sicily to Calabria. For those of you who are not au fait with uncommon card games and illegal gambling, here’s a quick primer on the etymology of the nickname. Zecchinetta was one of the most popular card games played aboard Maltese corsair ships. A game of chance, which was ultimately banned in Italy, Zecchinetta was once described as “a vicious game.” The name can be traced back to the Lanzichenecchi, the German mercenaries of Charles V who, in 1527, ransacked Rome. The game was an overnight success, due to its simplicity: The banker states what he is betting, and any player can offer to match this. The banker deals one card to himself and another to his opponent. He continues dealing cards in this order (him-opponent-him-opponent…you get it, super-simple). The winner is the first player to receive a card of the same value as the first card dealt.¹

The analogy to my research activities is plain to see; my research is, after all, a game of chance, which depends upon someone demanding that I act in a trustworthy way toward them, and that I don’t reveal their identity; in return I ask that they tell me about their life, and that they act in a trustworthy way by not setting me up for physical assault. It’s a weighted relationship, there is no equality, they are banker, I am player; they hold all the fucking cards and it’s up to them how the deck is stacked. If they abuse the trust I place in them I have no recourse. The banker controls all in the game of zecchinetta – he can, after all, arrange to deal to himself the winning card. My subjects, as banker, control everything I do in Italy, my freedom, my safe passage; my life is in their hands. I can never afford to doubt that fact. In return they have given me more research data than I could have ever hoped for.

It began one afternoon as I left my residence in the La Kalsa section of Palermo for a late-lunch meeting in Brancaccio – a neighborhood where I was spending much of my time, a neighborhood blighted by poverty, hopelessness, and where it almost seems that life itself can be sustained by the bonds of trust and honor alone. I didn’t make it to Brancaccio that day – as I walked to the bus terminal my phone rang he man on the other end of the phone was a subject I refer to as ‘Paolo’ – a subject who has become a close friend and confidante in this frequently bizarre life into which my research has pushed me. Paolo was one of my first Palermitan subjects; he is fluent in English, Italian, and Sicilian, as well as a few other languages. Moreover, he understands the purpose, integrity, and importance of academic research. Paolo is indispensable to my work in Italy, and regardless of that, we will remain lifelong friends after the work is finished.

Paolo instructed me to cancel my plans for the day and meet him for a drive out of town, to the Castelvetrano area. We met up at a popular coffee shop in a swish Palermitan neighborhood around Viale della Libertà. We left the city westbound, and then drove south to Castelvetrano. Just outside the Castelvetrano city limits we pulled into a service station car park and walked to a nearby cafeteria. I assumed that we were meeting with members of his cosca; Paolo had told me nothing on the way there, which was unusual for him as he generally primes me as to who we will meet, what their status is, what they know about me, who has vouched for me, how I should act and what I can expect.

I had nurtured a growing interest in ‘Ndrangheta for a year or so at that point (which I had mentioned to Paolo several months beforehand) – trying to get a fieldwork contact in Calabria was in the top 3 items of my fieldwork to-do list. But these types of contacts aren’t exactly easy to come by: As friends in Italy have joked when asking me how I got involved with this stuff – it’s not like you can look up a Mafia boss in the White Pages, ring him up and tell him what you do and that you want his life story and access to all his underlings.

Being female is another complication and this complication is something I prefer to deny: Whilst my gender allows me to pass undetected or unsuspected under certain circumstances, it also puts me at greater risk inasmuch as I am immediately presumed to be wholly defenseless. And, fair enough, I really am, very much so. Male researchers attempting to perform ethnographic research within the environment of any secret, underground, violent, criminal male social unit must accept the ever-present threat of physical violence. Female ethnographers must contend with the same, and must also accept the very real potential for violent sexual assault. Only a woman can understand the gripping fear induced by that awareness. That’s why the few of us who do this type of work just deal by ignoring the potential risk. Yeah, you have to have a screw loose to do this shit. If you’re female, however, it’s of great help to be more than slightly off kilter.

The men who Paolo introduced me to that day in Castelvetrano are from Calabria. They are ‘Ndrangheta clan members. They are not from the town of San Luca (of Duisburg infamy). I was introduced to everyone – some of them gave me fake names, some gave me no name, I gave my real name – same as always. The Calabrian’s were clearly very well versed in my resume, not the professional or academic one so much as my personal background – who I am, how and where my childhood was spent, how I became known to my NYC subjects, how I was introduced to the Sicilians, what I was interested in (particularly my lack of interest in criminal activities), how my integrity has been tested over the past few years and – most particularly – the fact that I am very strongly aware of the repercussions if I were to act in a dishonorable way toward my subjects: At the end of the day, when one is a civilian playing with this fire, all it comes down to is this – you expose identities, you die. No drama intended, just plain and simple fact. It’s as black and white as a choice can be. There’s no honor about it when you’re not an initiated member, there’s no expectation of loyalty, there can’t be. But life or death, well, even for someone as notoriously indecisive as myself it’s fucking obvious how to act.

The late afternoon and early evening was spent with the Calabrian’s studying me, my every word, my every movement, my every facial expression. At the end of the meeting Paolo and I returned to Palermo. Dropping me off in La Kalsa, a few blocks from my residence, he told me to meet him in Capo market the following morning at 7 am, to bring my passport and to leave my camera at home.

The next morning, when I met Paolo at Capo there was no messing around, no stopping for espresso and Nutella-stuffed croissants, no picking up fruit or bread and cheese in Capo, as we usually did. Paolo hustled me to where his car was parked, alongside another in which sat two other subjects I know from Paolo’s cosca. We were on our way, within minutes we were driving along the highway to Catania. We met up with one of the Calabrian chaps, ‘Cesco,’ at a bar. There was sufficient time to throw back a quick espresso, and then we were on our way out of town, headed north again toward Messina. Stopping in Catania seemed to me to have been a long detour to make, and when I later asked Paolo about this he indulged me with a lengthy explanation. But the detour was beautiful, and in the space of half a morning I was treated to almost every type of vista that the island offers.

Just outside of Messina we pulled off the road, in the suburb of Mili Marina, and made our way to a rather average looking boat, which made me nervous – the winter sea didn’t look too welcoming. This average looking boat turned out to be bloody fast though, but that could just be my lack of maritime experience.

At this point I was shitting myself. I assumed – correctly as it would turn out – that we on our way to Calabria. Did this mean that I was ‘in,’ so to speak – did it mean that Paolo had connected me to some ‘Ndrangheta subjects…? Or was it gonna turn out to be a really really bad day for my family? Between the rough seas and my rising fear I began to feel extremely weak and nauseated. Everything was ok; after disembarking in the town of Annà I was guided through the area surrounding the town of Bagaladi, in the Aspromonte region. I spent two days being shown around the area, meeting with the ‘Ndrangheta partners of Paolo’s Palermitan cosca. The Aspromonte park is a breathtakingly beautiful area and has topological attributes similar to those of western and central Sicily, structural characteristics that have long served to hide and shelter those who prefer to remain hidden. Aspromonte is without a doubt one of the most stunning places I have ever visited.

On the boat ride back to Sicily it was a Calabrian, ‘Teddu,’ who first called me ‘Zecchinetta.’ Most of my subjects have given me nicknames – it’s a basic cultural norm in tightly bound groups, criminal or non-criminal. ‘Teddu’ is of ‘Ndrangheta, his entire family is of ‘Ndrangheta, as is his wife’s family, and his sons will follow in his footsteps. When his daughter marries it will be to a man who is of ‘Ndrangheta.

‘Teddu’ threw the nickname ‘Zecchinetta’ out there in a joke that I couldn’t quite understand, as Paolo and I talked about Sciascia, as we crossed the Straits of Messina (the body of water between Sicily and Calabria). Others aboard the boat laughed uproariously, and began calling me by the name. I thought it was cute, I thought that getting a cool nickname meant that I was ‘in.’ I was thinking about Sciascia’s Day of the Owl characters. I was trying to figure out the reference, a bit puzzled.

Paolo explained that there is a card game called Zecchinetta. Simplistically I thought that ‘Teddu’ had been referring to the gutsy game of chance I played with my research. I thought the laughter from the other men was approval, that it might connote a small degree of respect. Nickname references are never what they seem in this game though. They weren’t declaring respect, they weren’t declaring approval, nor were they saying a damned thing that could be taken as any such thing. They weren’t even referring to me with the nickname, but to themselves. Respect? No way, it was more like they were expressing the sort of amusement one feels toward someone who acts in a completely incomprehensible manner.

There was a dark side to it, a very dark side. My nickname is double-edged: just as the reference alludes to my being accepted as a player in someone else’s game, so too is it a warning, a constant reminder of who is really in charge and how arbitrarily the game I’m playing can be changed by the banker. In calling me Zecchinetta they were clearly stating that I was allowed to play according to the capricious whim of another.

That I was given a nickname, any nickname, says only that these men acknowledged my existence as a living, breathing human being; and that, as long as I’m in the field, it’s all up to them. They can allow, or they can disallow. That’s all. But, all in all it’s no big deal when the game is played according to such easy, such well defined, rules.

Zecchinetta, it’s the perfect fucking soprannome.

References:
¹ Peter Earle, Corsairs of Malta and Barbary. London. 1970. p. 186-211)