Forza Italia

I took this frame in the middle of a warm evening on a busy shopping street. The crowd flowed by—quick glances, weekend chatter, the usual rhythm of a city centre. But what caught my eye was this man, sitting quietly on the kerb, Italian flags resting against a tree, another in his hands, waving lightly in the breeze.

He wore a mask, a straw cap, and sandals. Behind him, mannequins lit up glossy storefronts. In front of him, passers-by moved without pause. For a second, I stood still with the camera. Then I saw it.

The flag, mid-motion—green, white, red. The symbol of a nation, fluttering not from a balcony, but from the grip of someone who likely wasn’t born under it. Someone now part of its streets, selling symbols of national pride to people who may not fully see him. Or want him.

The phrase comes easily: Forza Italia! It’s shouted in stadiums, seen on scarves, and printed on political posters. But here it felt different—almost ironic. A party of the same name that has built much of its platform on exclusion. And yet here was this man, holding the same flag with no irony at all. Just trying to make a living. Just trying to belong.

As photographers, we often chase the loud stories—protests, rallies, victory parades. But sometimes the quietest frame tells you everything. This one stuck with me not because it shouted, but because it didn’t. Because amid all the noise, it simply asked: whose Italy is it?