I hate the indifferent

When we reread today the short essays of Gramsci, which were written in a tumultuous moment between 1916 and 1918, we do not return to them as آثار for a past struggle, but as arduous attempts to think within time, to understand how reality is made and reproduced daily, and to pose a dangerous question: why do we accept this reality? And who defined the vocabulary, distributed roles, and decided who speaks on behalf of whom? In this book, we do not accompany Gramsci in prison, but Gramsci in formation, Gramsci who has not yet fallen silent to write his notebooks of reflections, but who still writes amidst noise, amidst setbacks, amidst a nearly daily feeling of failure, and does so with a language that does not transcend language, but tries to grasp the thing at the moment of its birth or explosion. And although the reader of the book may catch some useful theories in it, Gramsci here is essentially not a theorist, but an explorer; he is not searching for gold, but for a new name for what he sees. A name that is neither conciliatory, nor complicit, nor repetitive. Therefore, his hatred of indifference is not merely a tired moral stance, but a necessary condition for any serious politics. For what ultimately hampers politics is not the absence of a project, but the absence of judgment, the inability to distinguish, and the lack of courage to name things by their names. Mohammed Ayt Hanna, Moroccan translator and academic