Italy’s diesel protests reveal class contradictions: productive petty bourgeoisie crushed by costs, metropolitan subproletariat exploding in rage.

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Diesel fuel as an indicator of class struggle

Over the past three weeks, Italy has laid bare—all at once and unfiltered—its fundamental social reality. On one side are truck drivers, farmers, fishermen, steelworkers, and a mass of young people who cannot even put a name to their own anger. On the other is an institutional apparatus that, instead of asking why the real people of the country have taken to the streets, convenes high-level meetings on public order and prepares yet another decree. Anyone familiar with the principles of historical materialism knows that situations like these should not be interpreted through the lens of crime reporting. They should be seen as moments when class contradictions—suppressed for years beneath the surface of managed consensus—become visible to the naked eye.

This article does not intend to provide a chronicle of the clashes, which have already been extensively covered. Instead, it aims to lay out the facts and ask what they reveal about the nature of the Italian state at this stage, about the social composition of those protesting, and about the structural inability of the ruling bloc to offer a response that is not repressive.

It all begins, as is often the case, with a budget item. Decree-Law No. 162 of September 17, 2026, had provided for a temporary reduction in the excise tax on diesel fuel until October 5; once that deadline passed, the government did not extend it. The average price has returned to nearly 2.50 euros per liter. For a small Calabrian truck owner who owns just one truck and works as a subcontractor for large retailers, that figure determines whether the month ends in the black or in the red.

The first spontaneous protests broke out in Calabria in early October. Then came Puglia, starting October 11, followed by Basilicata, Sicily, Campania, Molise, and finally Lazio, with picket lines at ports and blockades on the main thoroughfares. Truck drivers were joined by farmers, then by fishing communities. In front of the fish market in Termoli, a banner appeared featuring a skeleton and the words “You’ve reduced us to the bone”; in San Benedetto del Tronto, fishing boats remained in port. In supermarkets across Abruzzo, Molise, Puglia, Campania, and Calabria, the shelves emptied, and people rushed to stock up as they hadn’t since the COVID-19 pandemic.

Let’s pause to consider who these people are, because the sociology of the protest matters more than the slogans. We are not dealing with the classic industrial proletariat, the one found in large Fordist concentrations. We are dealing with a productive petty bourgeoisie in the process of proletarianization: the small business owner, the independent farmer, the fisherman with his own boat. Marx had precisely described—in Chapter 1 of the Manifesto—the fate of these intermediate strata, crushed between big capital, which absorbs them, and the wage-labor condition into which they ultimately plunge. The trucker blocking the highway today is formally an entrepreneur. In substance, his business is a disguised wage: the client dictates his rates, energy costs dictate his expenses, the state levies the excise tax, and he bears the risk. He is self-employed only in the sense that no one guarantees him anything.

In this sense, diesel fuel is more than just a fuel. It is the point where global oil rent—now spiraling out of control due to the Hormuz crisis—travels down the logistics chain until it is offloaded onto those at the very end. Financial capital speculating on futures, large retailers who refuse to renegotiate transport contracts, and the state collecting excise taxes: three forms of appropriation of value produced by others, all converging on the same social body.

The Second Front: The metropolitan subproletariat

On October 17, the protest changed in nature and geography. A hashtag that appeared out of nowhere on social media, “Italia in piazza,” called for demonstrations against the high cost of living, gas prices, and the tax burden. In Milan, Piazza Duomo became a battlefield; in Turin, a Feltrinelli bookstore was ransacked; in Bologna, clashes broke out in front of the train station involving water cannons and tear gas; the following day, in Milan alone, 271 people were taken to the police station, and as many as 220 were minors—among those detained were 12-year-olds, most of whom were second-generation Italians.

On the same day, in Rome, the CGIL’s national march and two other demonstrations against the high cost of living brought some 25,000 people into the streets without any incidents. This contrast must be kept in mind, because it disproves the government’s favorite myth of a single, violent protest. There are at least two distinct movements: one organized, with union roots and specific demands, and one disorganized, very young, urban, and lacking political leadership.

The second movement is the most interesting from a theoretical standpoint, and the most dangerous from a political standpoint. Marx had a term for the uprooted masses lacking class consciousness who, in times of crisis, can be mobilized by anyone who offers them a role: Lumpenproletariat. Using that word today does not mean insulting those young people. It means recognizing their objective position: children of the suburbs of Milan and Turin, often from immigrant families, excluded from the labor market even before entering it, raised in a world of conspicuous consumption that is never within their reach. It is a cognitive dissonance between imagination and reality, and the risk that this violence will be co-opted for reactionary purposes, as happened with the masses of unemployed and war veterans in the 1920s and 1930s.

The lesson of the 18th Brumaire also holds true in reverse. The underclass has no program of its own, and precisely for this reason it can become raw material for any project: that of those who want to set things ablaze, but also that of those who need an internal enemy to justify austerity measures. It is no coincidence that the government has chosen to speak almost exclusively about them, and almost never about the truck drivers in Gioia Tauro or the workers of the former Ilva plant who, in those same weeks, were striking in Taranto and Genoa to find out if they would still have a factory.

The state as a business committee

Il Manifesto defines modern state power as the committee that administers the common affairs of the bourgeois class. This formulation has often been dismissed as overly simplistic. The last two weeks offer an almost textbook-like illustration of it.

On October 18, following the clashes, the Prime Minister convened a summit on public order to evaluate further measures against those who exploit legitimate demonstrations. The October 19 summit resulted in the announcement of a decree-law that preempts measures from the security bill stalled in the Senate: deferred arrest for group vandalism, harsher penalties for roadblocks, and the strengthening of the “Strade Sicure” initiative in Milan with more military personnel. The League has called for the inclusion of preventive detention for minors as well. This would mark the eighth security package in four years.

Consider the sequence of events. A government that could not find the resources to extend the excise tax discount managed, in forty-eight hours, to find the resources to send the military onto the streets of Milan. An administration that, since March, has been issuing fuel decrees with two- or three-week deadlines—renewed only when the industry threatens a strike—is instead enacting emergency and permanent legislation on repression. Even the 300-million tax credit for the trucking industry, approved in May, still lacked an implementing decree by the end of June, to the point that industry associations were asking for it to be released. Social support arrives late, just in time, and in dribs and drabs; criminal legislation arrives immediately, and is designed to stay.

This does not stem from the malice of individual ministers, and those who think in terms of class need not demonize anyone. It stems from the role the state plays in a peripheral Western social formation, caught between European budget constraints and Atlantic rearmament commitments. We have military spending that will approach 45 billion in 2026 and austerity measures totaling approximately 23 billion. Caught in this vise, the state cannot redistribute wealth without breaking with its external guarantors, and so it does the only thing left to it: it manages the conflict as a matter of public order. Engels wrote this in The Origin of the Family: the state arises where class antagonisms become irreconcilable, as a power that claims to stand above society and that distances itself from it more and more.

The farce of contradictions

While the substance of the institutional response is consistent, its surface is a catalog of absurdities. It is worth listing them, because that is where the crisis of hegemony is most clearly visible.

The first concerns the diagnosis. Justice Minister Nordio spoke of probable criminal infiltration within the truckers’ blockades. Interior Minister Piantedosi, when questioned about the young people in Milan, admitted that there was still no evidence they were being manipulated. Two ministers from the same government: one sees organized crime behind the trucks, the other finds no orchestration behind the looting. Each chooses the interpretation that serves to delegitimize the crowd before them, and neither of them asks how much a full tank of gas costs.

The second issue concerns the passing of the buck. Milan Mayor Sala complained about an inadequate number of officers on the streets; Piantedosi responded by accusing him of being a representative of a “radical chic” left unable to condemn the violent protesters without exception. A group of mayors observed, with unintentional clarity, that pointing fingers at one another won’t lower gas prices. It is a perfect snapshot of a political class in which the majority and the opposition argue over the number of police needed, without either side questioning the system that fuels the anger.

The third issue concerns language. Meloni wrote that protesting against the high cost of living is a civil right, while sending a police officer to the hospital is the work of hooligans. Tajani called it unacceptable for the opposition to fan the flames. On October 22, Tajani himself welcomed the lifting of the strikes by the major trucking organizations, explaining that strikes do not lower diesel prices and only harm citizens and businesses. The right to protest is thus recognized in the abstract but denied in any concrete form that might produce results. You can protest, as long as the protest doesn’t disturb anyone; but a protest that doesn’t disturb anyone is a protest that no one hears. It is the old paradox of formal democracy that Marxist criticism has always denounced: equal freedoms on paper, unequal power relations in reality.

The fourth contradiction is the most serious. The government invokes the rule of law while drafting regulations—such as the preventive detention of 12-year-olds—that even its own commentators deem at risk of being unconstitutional. The state that demands that young people in the suburbs respect the rules is the same one that, to defend itself against them, is willing to violate its own.

The crisis is systemic

Gramsci, in his Quaderni, offered the most frequently cited definition of crisis: the old is dying and the new cannot be born, and during this interregnum the most varied pathological phenomena occur (readers are invited to consult Quaderni, Q. 3, 34). It is difficult to find a more accurate image for Italy in October 2026. The old social contract, founded on household savings, small businesses, and family-centered welfare, no longer holds. There is no new historical bloc. In between lie the pathological phenomena: youth gangs filming themselves as they ransack a jewelry store, ministers accusing one another, and a barrage of decrees.

Lenin, in the second chapter of The Failure of the Second International, way back in 1915, added that a crisis becomes revolutionary when those at the bottom no longer want to live as before and those at the top can no longer govern as before. The first condition is beginning to manifest itself in Italy. The second is evident in the paralysis of an executive branch that oscillates between last-minute extensions and punitive measures. The third element—the decisive one—is missing: a political force capable of transforming discontent into a program. The mass parties have been reduced to opinion-making groups and personal fiefdoms; the parliamentary left is demanding more police officers in Milan; the confederal unions have called for a general strike on November 20—five weeks after the clashes—and tend to meekly comply with government diktats just to keep their now-entrenched privileges intact. Meanwhile, in Milan, an “October 17 Movement” has emerged thatannounces demonstrations every Saturday until the government falls. Without roots, without organization, without theory, it is unlikely to go far. But its very emergence shows just how vast the void left behind is.

Herein lies the crux of the matter. I have argued elsewhere that the struggle today is not horizontal—between the right and the left—but vertical, between the people and the elites, and that those who reduce the conflict to a horizontal plane do so because they do not want people to understand where the problem lies. The events of October confirm this. The government has done everything in its power to transform a vertical conflict—over the cost of living and income distribution—into a horizontal one: Italians versus second-generation immigrants, law-abiding citizens versus hooligans, the productive North versus the South that blocks the roads. The slogan that appeared on the roadblocks, “The South Is Italy Too,” is the simplest response to this maneuver.

A class analysis that stops at national borders would be incomplete. The price of diesel in Cosenza depends on the Strait of Hormuz, and the Strait of Hormuz is closed or choked off because of a war that Italy did not decide on but supported as part of its Atlantic alignment. As early as March, the first fuel decree was justified by the international crisis linked to the war in Iran. Since then, the government has tried to keep up with rising prices through temporary discounts, while continuing to commit to rearmament goals and European austerity.

It is the old Leninist thesis on imperialism, updated to a condition of subordination. A country that does not control its own energy policy or its own foreign policy ends up passing on the costs of other people’s wars to the working classes. Sanctions against Russia have already driven up utility bills; the war in the Gulf is now driving up fuel prices. The bill always lands at the same address: the truck driver, the fisherman, the suburban family watching their grocery cart empty. While defense industry stocks rise, the real country grinds to a halt.

This is why Italy’s social crisis cannot be resolved with yet another extension of the fuel tax. It can be resolved—if at all—by breaking the constraints that make redistribution impossible: the European budget constraint in its current form, the military spending target, and the automatic alignment with wars that Italy endures without having any interest in them. Peace, energy sovereignty, and social justice are not three separate demands. They are the same demand viewed from three angles.

Who is asking for mercy, and from whom?

There is one image that stands out from these past weeks, and it is the skeleton on the banner in Termoli. It is not an image of revolt. It is an image of supplication: a people exposing their emaciated bodies and asking to be seen. The institutions have responded to this plea with the language of the criminal code, with mutual accusations between ministers and mayors, and with a tally of those arrested.

It must be stated clearly, because clarity is a duty of analysis: the devastation of a bookstore or the looting of a jewelry store is not class struggle. They are a symptom of a society that has ceased to offer its young people any sense of belonging, and the left, by romanticizing them, commits the same error as the right, which merely criminalizes them. Both fail to ask themselves how to transform that anger into consciousness. But it is equally clear that a state capable of responding to need only through force has lost its function as a social organism and has been reduced to an apparatus for defending those in power.

Italian history is all too familiar with these developments. Major social crises without political direction have always ended up shifting to the right, with an order imposed from above on the ruins of a fragmented movement. The alternative exists only if someone resumes the patient work that Gramsci called the “construction of hegemony”: organizing truck drivers and young people in the suburbs, fishermen and workers in Taranto, within a single vision that addresses wages, energy, peace, and sovereignty. This is not a task for talk shows or executive orders.

It is a political task in the oldest sense of the term, and institutional Italy, for now, has shown that it does not even want to acknowledge it.