I started smoking weed something like 15 years ago in the south of Italy, where I was born and where the cannabis plant grows naturally and has enormous popularity. Altering your state of mind is something quiet common in Italy. Getting drunk at never-ending Sunday meals is a favorite activity of the most respected families. So smoking a marijuana joint with my teenage friends seemed only so natural, especially after the first encounters with beat literature. I never gave it up, and so far I don't regret it.

As you get older it is ever more difficult to get a decent supply, in quality and quantity, from the sidewalk pushers of the college years. You seem odd to them, they might think you are a cop. That is why you start to try having larger quantities, in order to avoid the repetition of a rather unpleasant event. The friends, colleagues and acquaintances that benefit of my services, all face the same situation. They are not youths any more, the are all respectable tax payers, they would find it extremely hard and annoying to get hold of a decent bag of pot. Especially in a country where you actually risk less having cocaine on you rather than weed, thanks to a 2007 law of the second Berlusconi government.

To avoid annoying my wife, children, and sister (none of them smokers) with people coming and going from the house, only few people are allowed to come home for their supply. They are old friends of both my wife and me, and we usually meet for quarterly aperitifs, on the balcony when the weather is mild. The rest of “my”people are colleagues and acquaintances that I go visit with my bicycle after work.

Because I do work, 40 bloody hours a week to pay back the mortgage rate for the pretty little apartment I bought. A mortgage that I was not entitled to obtain according to official regulations, because at the time I earned too little. But the realter new the right guy at the right time. The right guy knew the right bank director (the bank is owned by Mr. Berlusconi, of course) and, after a commission, he made sure I got my 25-year loan. Luckily I was able to get a full time job for a multinational corporation that is just enough to cover the monthly fee I owe the bank, but this is a totally different story.

Still it does probably tell that I do not sell the weed for a living, or, again, to make a profit. I do it mainly because otherwise I couldn't afford it for myself. I also do it because it makes me feel helpful and important for all the people that I previously mentioned. I share something with them and we get to see each other, talk and smoke together. The passion for weed keeps us close, and that's somehow nice, whatever your opinion on drugs may be. Then you get the thrill of doing something against the rules, which, I must admit it, will always be quiet fascinating for a rebel spirit like myself.

This is why I make no secret of my little habit, even on the most popular social networks where I have a profile. I personally consider this little activity my most intense form of activism, the one that takes a hell of a lot of my precious time. I guess you could say I'm a sort of bootlegger of modern times, one of the less dishonest ones probably. I'm sure many Americans are still grateful to the brave citizens that helped booze go through the 1920s.

But recently this thrill has become fear. I fear loosing all I have, I suddenly feel the responsibility of it all. Italy is run by a TV tycoon who made his fortune laundering mafia money. It is one of the European countries with more consumption of cocaine per capita. Politics is run like business, and business is done cheating and bribing. And yet I must be the one to be in fear.

You might think I'm afraid of some mafia thugs, who could maybe get pissed from some delayed payment and decide to give me a warning beating, or even worse. Well that's not the case. As a matter of fact I don't deal with any sorts of thugs. The guy who supplies me is simply another old-time friend who took it to a slightly higher level, and is able to live out of it, without needing to take a full-time job. But don't let the earring fool you, he is not a rich drug dealer, living fast and furious. He's just another regular guy doin' his thing, struggling to make a living in these harsh times.

I don't even fear going to jail, even though the whole prosecution and trial issue would mean a great blow to my family life, with who knows what nasty consequences. Still, the reasons I briefly presented to you, the fact that I have an immaculate police record, and that I also have regular withdrawals from my tiny bank account to pay for part of the weed, would probably convince any human judge to sentence me with some form of alternative punishment.

I am also sure that all the friends who get weed from me would testify and reveal that we had a sort of mutual, even if unspoken, agreement. Non of them considers me as their drug dealer. They would share the responsibility and help me through it. What I really fear right now, is getting killed by the police.

Try googling names like Aldo Bianzino or Stefano Cucchi, but mind you, you might be shocked by the images you'll see. Aldo was a middle aged hippie, a frikkettone as we call them in Italy, who grew his own plants for personal use. He lived in the countryside with his life-time fiancé, and never did no harm. He was stopped at a random police check, was found with some weed in the car, and arrested. He never made it to court. Died after a night at the police station.

Stefano was a younger guy, in his late 20es. He was recently stopped in a park at the outskirts of Rome, with 20 grams of marijuana. I don't really now if he was there to sell it, or if he had just bought it, or what. The fact is, he was also stopped by the police and taken to the station for further identification. He too never made it to court. Two days later he was dead, probably after a night of savage beatings, as the images suggest. He suffered of epilepsy, as his unfortunate family later denounced.

These are just 2 cases, but there are many more that you can find about on the web. I'm writing this appeal to call for your help, because I'm sick of it all. And really scared. If this little story of mine goes around and gains momentum, I really hope something will change. Please do anything in your power to spread the news. Forward this text to your friends, link it on other web sites, support it via a FB group. Do whatever you can.

If this story ever reaches the Italian TV, where the mind of the average Italian citizen is daily steered, I still have chances to live my hard-going, happy life. If not, I might join the tens of thousands who are crammed in Italian jails for drug-related crimes, which amounts to more than 50% of the total jail population in Italy. Do it for me. In the worst of cases I actually risk, and I really don't want to. Not now at least. Not in this stupid way. Should this ever happen and should you read these words after I'm dead, please take the extra effort to make sure I should be the last marijuana martyr.