‘The number of violent, angry youths is on the rise in Naples: a new wave of crime’

Once you’ve passed the Lazzaretto headland and reached Nisida and the Juvenile Detention Centre, the sky and sea merge into one amidst the intricate contours of the Phlegraean coast. And one cannot help but wonder immediately what effect this dazzling beauty has on young lads who have too much life behind them and even more anger in their eyes. ‘Our first challenge is to ensure they learn to appreciate beauty, something they are unaccustomed to. To discover their own beauty. When they arrive, they don’t see it.’ From this promontory, where Homer placed the lair of Polyphemus and where ancient Romans, such as Brutus, built villas for otium, one understands at first glance why the landscape is an ally for Gianluca Guida, who has been director of Italia’s most famous juvenile detention centre for 30 years. First and foremost because it literally offers a different perspective to the street urchins from neighbourhoods in Naples not bordering the sea. ‘Where decay and a lack of care for people and communal spaces prevail – areas on which we, on the other hand, work very hard.’ But alongside the young people from ‘the system’, recruited by the Camorra, we are increasingly seeing children from completely different backgrounds. ‘With the same inner rage that turns into unplanned violence. We are witnessing a very sharp rise in violence among the very young.’

Born on the Calabrian side of the Tyrrhenian coast, aged 59, married with two children, Guida moved to the foot of Vesuvius at the age of 10, “to enable my older sisters to attend university. My parents decided to move from Paola, with my father’s only condition being that we should not go any further than Naples.’ And Naples became his chosen home, even when work initially took him to Modena. Naples, with its contradictions, its charm and that culture of hospitality, “which has largely been lost, but which we are trying to revive,” he says. He has always heard about the art of working with young people: the son of a headteacher and a teacher, thanks to them – and later to his wife Barbara, who also works in education – he nurtured that calling which would lead him to juvenile justice. Naples did the rest. In particular, the Rione Traiano, a working-class neighbourhood close to Fuorigrotta, where he became a volunteer for an organisation dedicated to helping street children. A neighbourhood of council housing and dignified poverty. ‘We gave them a childhood; we thought we were starting a revolution.’ Then, amongst the blocks of flats built for post-war displaced people, “the Giuliano clan moved their drug-dealing operations from Forcella, and everything changed in the 1980s: the basements were squatted in; the small parks became drug hideouts”. And that revolution was stifled by the Camorra’s easy money and the clan wars that still, even now, involve very young people. These were to become the lifelong challenge for this Neapolitan (by adoption) with a soft voice and few carefully chosen words. ‘In ’96, the Nisida Juvenile Detention Centre was without a director. I was the deputy warden at Secondigliano Prison. Whilst they were finalising the appointment, they sent a 29-year-old with no experience on a temporary basis.’ And since nothing is more enduring than the precarious, on this small island – which, etymologically speaking, is in fact attached to the mainland by a narrow strip of land – Guida has remained for 30 years (so far).

From the terrace, where even the President of the Republic, Sergio Mattarella, appeared, one can see the literary park on one side and Bagnoli on the other, with the rusting steel of Italsider and the recurring plans to revitalise the area, which lies squarely within a high-risk seismic zone; and there is the voice of Naples, with all its anxieties, echoing amongst the terracotta-tiled blocks of flats, the pottery and pastry workshops, and the theatre donated by Eduardo, which they are trying to reopen. And then there are the cells where, at one point, as many as 80 youths were held. More than in the days of the so-called ‘paranza’, when, following the Scampia feud, the many deaths and numerous arrests led to gangs of very young people filling the power vacuums left by organised crime. ‘Those dynamics are returning. There is a new escalation in juvenile crime in the city: youth groups are trying to occupy new spaces in activities traditionally run by Camorra families and are waging war against one another. “We are in the most acute phase,” analyses Guida. Partly because of this turmoil, the numbers of young people in custody are breaking previous records, “putting at risk,” warns Guida, “the very model of juvenile justice, which is effective only if tailored to the young person.” And what about the Caivano decree, with its increased use of pre-trial detention? As reported by the Antigone association, amongst others, it is clogging up the juvenile justice system, to the extent that Minister Nordio has opened a new IPM (for the time being). “It has little impact here. Almost all our young people are from the local area, with very few cases of gang sexual assault. Here, overcrowding is linked more to ever-longer sentences for increasingly serious offences committed in groups.” The decree named after a large town in the Neapolitan hinterland, on the other hand, is having an impact on transfers to adult prisons, “which already exist and are sometimes, albeit reluctantly, necessary. As well as the individual’s interests,” explains the director, “there are those of the group.” Sometimes it is the young people themselves who ask to ‘be sent to a proper prison, which they romanticise. They regard being here – the school, the groups in which we get them to work on themselves – as a waste of time’. Around twenty have left Nisida in the last year. A defeat for everyone.

Ten years ago, when the ‘baby bosses’ began arriving in large numbers, ‘we were unprepared: it was from them that we realised what was happening out there. We were used to minors being blamed for crimes committed by adults, not to teenagers or young people barely out of childhood being thrown into running criminal networks. We were unable to establish any channels of dialogue. We came up against insurmountable barriers.” Now that it is time for Guida to take stock and to strive to ‘restore normality to the Nisida community’ – including through a forthcoming book (Guerrieri, published by Il Pellegrino) – this memory ranks among his most painful experiences. Having encountered thousands of teenagers with different stories but all with serious offences. “And all of them incapable of understanding themselves. Our first task is to help them recognise their emotions and manage them. These are young people who put on a front, but above all hide their vulnerabilities from themselves.” In Guida’s reflections, specific faces and names come to mind. Like those we met during the Nisida leg of our tour of prisons. Little more than children, aware that sometimes it’s just a matter of chance whether you end up arrested or lying on the ground covered in a white sheet. “They have no inhibitions nor any fear of dying,’ he warns. Guida is thinking of them as he reflects on certain children, as Diego De Silva would say; the many born ‘in tough neighbourhoods with their fascination with and flaunting of wealth’. But he is also thinking of those who grew up in the picture-postcard streets of the city: ‘More and more often, they too are turning up in Nisida. Over the last ten years, we’ve seen a rise in youth violence that even they themselves cannot explain: the result of a rage, smouldering over pain, which becomes a scar and then explodes. More and more young people are seeking “o’ malessere”, as in the neo-melodic song I spoke to them about.’ A desire to feel bad and to feed their suffering: nothing to do with the romanticism of the young Werther, but rather ‘seeking out situations that make you feel bad. Young people who feel their identity isn’t recognised – because of social norms, because their adolescence wasn’t properly supported – and so they see themselves as flawed and want to feel bad. A generational phenomenon that breeds anger, which turns into sudden violence. Like the young lad in *Mare fuori*. He, one of the protagonists of the first series, is denied the right to adolescence; he’s merely a pawn in the scheme. When he goes off the rails, like many of his peers, he has no tools to cope. ‘I loved the early seasons for their ability to portray the toxic relationships that create this sense of unease, which is shared by many very young people who have become passionate about the show. Even if, in this case, the young people get angry about fictional aspects such as the ease with which leave is granted.’ The series, which brought the Nisida Juvenile Detention Centre to prominence, originated here 20 years ago when the writer, Cristiana Farina, spent 15 days seeking inspiration at the centre, “portrayed alongside our own efforts to foster positive relationships,” explains Guida. In the juvenile justice system, the slow, painstaking work on a wounded sense of self can make all the difference. The approaches are very different from those used with adults. ‘When I arrived, they seemed mad to me: the commander told me about a boy who’d been allowed to leave to be at his grandmother’s bedside on the basis of verbal authorisation from the supervisory magistrate, which was to be formalised the following day. For me, coming from the rigidity of adult prisons – where we addressed inmates formally – it seemed absurd. It took me a year to switch to using ‘tu’ with less formality but the same respect. The teachings of Sandro Spampanato, the governor at the time, were essential; as was the ability to listen, which I learnt from our staff, from Peppino, the long-serving cook, and from the whole team.” These are the approaches that characterise the juvenile justice system, which, according to Guida, needs a specific prison system.

When the programme works, the young people ‘come back: they have a new life, a path to redemption, and they want to reconnect with parts of their past. A few days ago, Marco messaged me on social media because he’d like me to meet his son.’ One of those who has come to terms with his anger. And discovered the beauty in life. And on the Nisida headland.