by Christie Marshall

Christie Marshall tells us how, in a remote part of northern Italy, local individuality is alive and well.

On my year abroad in northern Italy I’m living in Bolzano, one of the two provinces which make up the autonomous region known to Italian speakers here (along with the rest of Italy and the government) as Trentino-Alto Adige. However, if you ask the locals whose mother tongue is German – accounting for more than 60% of the population – they’ll likely tell you that they live in Südtirol.

All of the street signs, official documents, adverts, and menus here are written in German and Italian. To work in the public sector, you have to take an exam to prove that you’re fluent in both languages. Even when speaking one language, people borrow words from the other: you hear rapid Italian with smatterings of “genau”, and German being peppered with “Oh Madonna”. When I tell Italians that I’m here to learn Italian, they laugh. The influence of the German is undeniable; at times, it’s overwhelming.

The region’s third language – Ladin – can’t be forgotten. With an estimated 50,000 speakers across the country (the exact number is unknown, as most Italian censuses don’t ask people to identify their native language) this unique language easily could have died out a long time ago. Written, it looks like a strange mix of Italian and German, and spoken, it’s like nothing I’ve ever heard before.

In this curious mix of languages, I see similarities between South Tyrol and Scotland. A general comparison: Italian is like English – the ‘main’ official language, consistent throughout the country, and widely spoken in the cities. German is the Scots of the region – recognised as a real language and widely spoken, but more prominently so in smaller, more isolated towns. Ladin is South Tyrol’s Gaelic – a historic, minority, localised language being preserved by concerted efforts.

The larger cities have a relatively Italian feel to them (undoubtedly influenced by the monuments and buildings leftover from Mussolini’s dictatorship) and they are where the majority of Italian natives live. But as soon as you leave the city – the province’s largest is a bona fide metropolis of 100,000 people – and head to the smaller towns and mountain villages, it’s like stepping into The Sound of Music (not that I’ll ever complain about living out my dream of being Maria von Trapp).

Previously part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, South Tyrol was annexed from Austria and ‘given’ to Italy after the First World War, along with neighbouring Trentino. A couple of war-time agreements were signed with other allied nations, and in 1919 Italian soldiers marched in and occupied the land. As could be expected in the aftermath of war, the area’s transition to being part of Italy was complex to say the least, and this is where political comparisons can be made with Scotland. There are calls for South Tyrol to split from Italy, in order to allow the re-unification of Tyrol – and I don’t think anyone needs an explanation of the significance of “independence” in Scotland. German names for towns and cities were ‘Italianised’ in a move which many German speakers still contest. I’ve even been told that Austrian graves were dug up to make room for Italians, though I can’t find any solid evidence of this. Perhaps it’s an urban legend concocted to give more credit to the anti-Italian movement; sadly, it seems likely that it’s true.

Graffiti scrawls of “EIN TIROL” (one Tyrol) along bridges and riverbanks are reminiscent of sectarian graffiti seen in Scotland, which alternate between Unionist fervour and calls for independence depending on where you go. Here, they act as a stark reminder that South Tyrol’s annexation hasn’t been forgotten – or entirely forgiven.

Scotland, of course, has been part of a union with England since 1707, and part of the United Kingdom since its creation in 1801: hundreds of years have passed, in which Scots have become used to being part of this union. For others though, this means hundreds of years of rising tensions – often alongside the idea that Scottishness and Britishness are mutually exclusive. For Tyroleans, their identity as Italians (an identity which some do not claim) still feels new, and acts as a reminder of a painful time in their past.

The regional autonomy granted to Bolzano and Trentino means that their governments are largely free to make their own laws and decisions. Much like the devolved Scottish Parliament, the autonomous governments decide things like whether their province should be in lockdown. However, there seems to be far less communication and teamwork between Bolzano and Rome than Holyrood and Westminster. Although sometimes this can seem beneficial (we escaped a three-week lockdown in January because Bolzano simply said ‘no’ to Prime Minister Conte’s decisions) it can often lead to confusion about who we should listen to. Sometimes, it doesn’t even feel like this is part of Italy.

This is why the current situation, although a little disjointed, seems to be the only one possible. Some people feel that they’re too German to be Italian, but too Italian to be German. There's no black and white; but regional autonomy grants them a grey area.

I didn’t know the ins and outs of this area’s history before arriving in September, and even now I can’t fully understand the cultural complexities which are a consequence of this shared past. I don’t think anyone who hasn’t grown up here truly can. But, having grown up half-English and half-Scottish in Scotland, with family in three of the four UK nations, I recognise some of the struggles here, and I know how important it is that the rest of Italy continues to allow these provinces their political and cultural freedom.

ST.ART does not own the rights to any images used in this article.