The next morning, my friend pulled up under my house and honked. It was time to go. I grabbed the keys and, instinctively, brought the keychain to my nose. I smelled the scent - that specific smell of rubber that, from that moment on, would be, for me, the scent of freedom.

Wearing my full-face helmet, I was terrified. But my friend was with me, on his trusty 60s Vespa, to escort me. I nodded, he took off. I followed. The smell inside the new helmet was strong, and the promise I had made to my parents was clear: I would get a license to drive any motorcycle by taking proper driving school courses. Only on those conditions would they allow me to keep riding my Zippo. Conditions I found decidedly acceptable.

During my first trip, I thought about my grandfathers. The one at home, disappointed to have "lost" his taxi driver role, and the other one, who had died two years earlier, who had given me the scooter and the helmet. And I felt lucky. Fear gave way to satisfaction. A kid left home. A young man arrived at school that morning.

When I arrived at school, I flew to my classroom. I walked in and, as per tradition, placed Zippo’s key on the teacher's desk. My classmates cheered and congratulated me. Another one of us had crossed that milestone of life.

That sense of freedom and growth changed me. I started to feel different. To carry myself more securely. To have greater awareness, and this improved my social relationships, my self-esteem, my perspectives.

Then came a day of frost. One of the few, at those latitudes. My grandfather warned me: "Be careful - it's going to freeze tomorrow morning". I didn't listen to him. When my friend came by, we set off in a line, as usual. At the curve of the bridge, I saw him skid slightly, but before I could process it... boom, I was on the ground. The speed was low, so I didn't get hurt, but I damaged Zippo. My friend turned around and burst out laughing. I was more disappointed than in pain, and I decided to go back home. Not for the dirty jeans. Not for the pain. For the shame.

The next day, at 7:30, my grandfather was waiting for me proudly in his blue Fiat 131. That regained role had rejuvenated him by five years. The same years I felt I had lost the moment I admitted to myself I didn't want to try that road again. So the following day, I decided to try again, and on that fateful bridge, I managed to keep my Zippo upright. Arriving triumphantly near the school, I realized there was a cluster of young people right at the street's curve: there was another sheet of ice, and as they arrived, they slipped and fell. One by one, almost all of them. I realized it in time and got off before the curve. Instinctively, I started signaling from the road to slow down. Some followed my advice. Others decided to kiss the asphalt. Maybe it served as a lesson to them. Or maybe not.

January arrived, and I was at driving school. I liked the lessons, and right after, I would go to my tennis practice, not far from there. All on my own. That afternoon, however, tennis lessons were suspended: heavy rain was forecast, and the courts, at river level, would almost certainly flood. When the driving lesson ended, the heavens had opened. I waited two minutes and got on the scooter anyway. My mother, worried, called the driving school. She asked them to stop me, saying she would come by car, but the secretary looked out and saw neither me nor my Zippo. At that instant, I opened the front door: my mother burst out laughing. It looked like I had just stepped out of a bathtub, leaving rivers of water behind me. "Rain is not a problem", I repeated. "Freedom cannot be contained by a little water", I thought.

In May, a good opportunity arrived: my father was buying a Vespa ET4 125, and they had made him a good offer for another scooter - bigger, modern, fashionable. A Gilera Runner. I accepted willingly; I would have one of the trendiest scooters, and I didn't mind that. But I knew I would miss my Zippo, so on the day of the handover, I decided to make a short video, immortalizing all the details I had grown attached to. I still have that video, with the faded colors of a VHS recorded in a hurry in a garage. I took off the keychain and decided to keep it as a souvenir. And the helmet would stay with me, of course. Along with the hair I was starting to find inside it, even if I wasn't paying attention to it. It didn't take many hours to realize I had made a monstrous mistake, because Zippo was small and light, maneuverable. This new one might have been fashionable, yes, but decidedly too high and uncomfortable for me. But that is another story.

Years later, I was already in Bologna. I had another "Zippo" - which I adored - and the same helmet. One evening I went to the cinema, in the center, and coming out I found a surprise: they had forced open the compartment under the seat and stolen my helmet. That helmet, the only remaining part of my grandfather's gift. Old, smelly by now, but it was my helmet. My reaction was very, very negative. To the point that when I got home, a friend and housemate tried to calm me down by downplaying it, reminding me that there was probably more hair inside that helmet than on my head. He was good. I was not. I lashed out verbally, almost insulting him, even though he remained calm until the end and let me vent. Then I told him the story of the helmet, and he lowered his gaze and, in a friendly way, patted me on the shoulder. I probably still owe him an apology for that night, if he remembers it. He probably forgot it many, many years ago.

From time to time, when I am at my parents' house, I open my old memory drawer. There are many of my things - many from that very period - and last time I found the "big foot". Faded, hardened by 30 years. Instinctively, I bring it to my nose again. And I still smell, intact, the scent of freedom.

As is often the case, I found points where I agreed (at least partially) with the author, and others where I completely disagreed. And that’s perfectly fine.

There was one point, however, where my disagreement was total. I'll quote a part of the article here: “The FreeBSD community is...difficult. What I mean by this is that it feels much like the average Linux community in the early 2000s: it looks down on others (in this case Linux users), it appears rather unwelcoming and at times downright toxic. Any time you mention anything vaguely related to Linux you'll inevitably cause somebody to go on a massive rant about how FreeBSD is better than Linux.

It also seems there's a general dislike for change, even if said change is for the better. It feels like a form of "tech boomerism": change is bad because it's not what we're used to, even if the end result is in fact better.”

Frankly, my own experience has been the complete opposite. The communities around the BSD systems are open, friendly, and extremely approachable - though, of course, everyone has their own personality, and toxic people can exist within these communities as well. When I started becoming more active in the BSD community, I received a completely unexpected welcome. The BSD conferences I've attended have the atmosphere of a family, of close friends. No one shows up to boast, but to discuss, to dialogue. In a word: to build.

But I picked up on two details from the excerpt: “mention anything vaguely related to Linux” and “tech boomerism: change is bad because it’s not what we’re used to, even if the end result is in fact better”. This suggested something to me that was later confirmed when the author mentioned the “three firewalls competing with each other” within FreeBSD.

They don’t compete with each other. They coexist - and that’s a completely different thing. This gave me the key to understanding the previous part as well.

This isn't a battle. We aren't in a ruthless commercial arena where different solutions copy each other to get ahead, hoping to attract "users" (better: paying customers) from the other side. And unfortunately, this is something that has been happening in many "mainstream" Open Source communities for a while now. It's a loss of the Open Source philosophy - of doing something for the pleasure of it, to have something different, and to be open to contributions from others, as well as the idea of making what you create public and free. Whether it's with licenses like the GPL or like BSD, MIT, etc., the spirit is to say: “Here it is. If it’s useful to you, take it. If you want, contribute. Otherwise, you can move on; you have no constraints or obligations.”

I often see curious Linux users arriving in BSD communities, and that’s fantastic. The spirit is almost always positive, exploratory: “What can the BSDs do for me?” And sometimes, that turns into, “What can I do for the BSDs?”

But this isn't a religion - you don't need to choose one - and you can use different OSes based on your needs. I happily use Linux, in its various distributions, for some of my workloads. I'm writing this post on a mini PC running openSUSE Tumbleweed, on btrfs, and it works wonderfully. No BSD, at the moment, has adequate support for this machine. I use Linux, and I'm happy with it.

The purpose of the BSDs, like other Open Source operating systems less adopted than Linux and its distributions, isn't to "win" or to "emulate" but to be themselves. So, arriving in a BSD community and saying "but on Linux..." as if it were an example to be followed, has, over time, become an attitude that is not well-tolerated.

BSD communities value stability - and these communities are much, much smaller than those around projects like Linux and its distributions. It's therefore inevitable that some things will lag behind or that they won't want to embark on projects that might leave something unfinished and malfunctioning. Unfortunately, this sometimes happens anyway. It's better not to seek it out deliberately.

Desktop use for the BSDs has never been a primary focus, particularly for FreeBSD and NetBSD. To judge them on this metric alone is, therefore, extremely limiting and, in a sense, unfair.

So, coming back to the article I read - I understand some of the author's points of view, but calling the FreeBSD community a form of tech "boomers" or "toxic" because it doesn't want to follow Linux's example is, in my opinion, a flawed approach to an autonomous, different operating system.

Let's try to shake off the aggressive, competitive, and monopolistic dynamics when we approach the Open Source world. The plurality of completely autonomous choices is a richness for everyone. Monoculture is always harmful and, in the long run, destructive.

It reminds me of the time when all smartphone manufacturers were trying to copy the iPhone as much as possible. All the phones were the same: either originals or copies, but all extremely similar. How boring.

The first was about my decision not to name names. I understand the disappointment - a specific target can feel more satisfying. But naming the company would have helped no one.

Before publishing that piece (which had been in my drafts for over a year), I did my research and spoke with some of the people involved. They had already taken action by warning friends and colleagues, with good results. But they had no desire for public exposure. Many years have passed, and the company in question no longer has the relevance it once did.

Some readers understood my position, recognizing that naming them would have opened me up to legal trouble. But many others began citing US laws and constitutional amendments to prove that I could have named names without legal repercussions.

What many fail to grasp is that the world is not the United States. Not every country follows the same rules and laws. In some European countries, even true statements can be actionable if deemed harmful to a company's reputation. The burden of legal costs often falls on the defendant, regardless of the outcome. Truth is a defense, but it's an expensive one.

Furthermore, even if I were to win such a legal battle, it would represent an immense drain on my energy and resources. Cui prodest? Who benefits? Certainly not me.

There's a difference between being transparent and being a martyr. I share my experiences not to name and shame, but to illuminate patterns. If my story helps even one developer recognize red flags early, or encourages one entrepreneur to prioritize sustainability over a quick exit strategy, then the purpose is served. The goal isn't to destroy companies - it's to build better alternatives. Builders, not destroyers.

The Italian Problem That Never Was

The second recurring theme deserves a more careful response.

The assertion was that "stories like this can only happen in Italy because it's full of small, family-run businesses". This one, I admit, irritated me more - especially when it came from fellow Italians.

First: I have not only worked in Italy, and I never specified that the story was about an Italian company.

Second, and more importantly: the existence of small businesses is a strength, not a weakness.

Over my 20+ year career, I've worked with companies across different continents. The dynamics I described are universal. I've seen them in Silicon Valley startups obsessed with growth metrics, in European scale-ups playing the scalability game, and yes, in Italian SMEs. This isn't a geographic problem - it's a structural one, tied to how we measure business success.

Experience has taught me that large corporations create replaceable employees - mere cogs in a machine. In that model, the customer becomes a number, stripped of their essence. The company's relentless need for constant growth becomes a vise grip. The relationship is no longer about providing a service that enriches a person's life, but about becoming a kind of necessary evil.

The AI Generated Accusation

Then there was a third recurring comment: "AI Generated!"

It seems to be the fashion of the moment. Pointing at every text as AI generated, searching for details (even unfounded ones) in every corner of every sentence. This makes me smile. In one case, it was a person who instead regularly reshared videos and texts that were fake, obviously AI generated.

I write as I've always written. Being a non-native English speaker, my process often involves writing my notes or the full post in Italian first, and then translating it. The original Italian text is 100% mine. Of course, I use tools to check grammar and polish the final version. But the form, the thoughts, the experiences, the reflections? Those are mine. Earned through years of work, mistakes, and learning.

Perhaps the real issue is that we've become so accustomed to corporate speak, to sanitized PR language, to texts optimized for SEO rather than human readers, that when someone writes plainly about their actual, real life experiences, it feels somehow artificial. Real life is less realistic than the perfect, AI generated world.

That says more about what we've normalized than about my writing.

Back to What Matters

Let me offer some concrete examples of why small matters.

Last year, a small hosting provider I work with noticed unusual activity on a client's server at 2 and called them directly. A large provider's automated system would have simply shut it down (or worse, kept it running and sent a bill for the attack traffic). The small provider knew their clients by name, understood their business patterns, and acted with judgment - not just policy.

When a craftsman repaired my roof, as I wrote about a few months ago, he installed a permanent lifeline. Not because the contract required it, but because he cared about anyone who might climb up there in the future. An antenna installer, maybe. Someone we'd never meet. A large contractor would have done exactly what the contract specified. Nothing more, nothing less.

Consider my own field. I could recommend a managed Kubernetes cluster from a major cloud provider. It would be "scalable", "enterprise-grade", buzzword-compliant. Or I could set up a simple FreeBSD system on a modest VPS that the client actually understands and controls. The first option makes me look sophisticated. The second option actually serves the client.

The Myth

We've been conditioned to believe that scale equals quality. That "enterprise solutions" are inherently superior to "small business" ones. That a local craftsperson or a small firm can't possibly match the capabilities of a multinational corporation.

Often, it's the very opposite.

Scale brings standardization - which means one-size-fits-all solutions that actually fit no one perfectly. Scale brings layers of bureaucracy, where decisions pass through committees and approval chains, each step removing you further from the person who actually understands your problem. Scale brings quarterly earnings pressures, where every interaction is optimized for extraction rather than service.

Small brings accountability. When there are only three people in the company, and one of them is talking to you, that person cares about your satisfaction in a way no call center agent ever can. Their reputation is on the line with every interaction. Their business lives or dies by word of mouth, not by marketing budget.

Small brings flexibility. Without layers of approval, a small business can say "yes, we can try that" in ways that are literally impossible in larger organizations with rigid policies.

Small brings knowledge. The person who answers your call is often the same person who will do the work. Or at least knows them personally and can walk down the hall to discuss your specific situation.

I've seen this pattern repeated across industries. The barista who knows the exact temperature and length that his "friend of the bar" prefers. The small bakery that remembers you prefer less sugar. The independent bookstore that special-orders obscure titles. The local mechanic who tells you honestly that you don't need that expensive repair yet. The solo developer who maintains software for twenty years because users depend on it, not because there's a business case.

These aren't romantic exceptions. They're the backbone of genuine service.

Where Trust Lives

So no, I won't be naming names. And yes, I'll continue to champion small businesses - not out of nostalgia, but because I've seen, time and again, where real quality and accountability actually live. Not in the quarterly earnings report. Not in the hockey-stick growth chart. Not in the "enterprise solution" that requires tons of (expensive) certifications to configure.

It lives in the direct relationship between maker and user, service provider and client. That's where trust is built. And trust, unlike scale, cannot be automated.

It's earned, one interaction at a time, by people who know your name.

Many young people ride by on their bikes, often with a portable speaker. They listen to the classic trap music, feeling rebellious, yet in reality, conforming more than they probably realize. But they're young, and this is the rite of passage for every generation, so it's perfectly fine.

One evening, like so many others, I hear a familiar tune in the distance. Summertime, in the Janis Joplin version. I look up, curious, expecting to see a cheerful older man, but surprisingly, it was a young man pedaling by, singing softly to himself, relaxed. I smile. He doesn't see me, lost in his pedaling and his own world. Serene.

The same scene repeats the next evening, this time with The Doors. The Crystal Ship, once again sung quietly but, from the movement of his lips, with clear intention. I realize it wasn't a coincidence. And so it continued for three more days, curiously always with classic bands or tracks that I also love: The Rolling Stones, The Mamas & the Papas, PFM.

On the fourth day, I didn't sit in my usual spot. Instead, my wife and I went to a nearby bar for a refreshing drink a little earlier. He was there with his group of friends, making plans for the evening. As they were saying their goodbyes, I overheard a classic teenage line: "Yeah, but just don't bother us later with that shit music of yours".

He replied calmly: "I like it".

I didn't hear anything else.

The next day, I was back in my usual spot, without my laptop, just relaxing and chatting with my wife. Suddenly, I hear a melody I recognized instantly: Child in Time. The young man was pedaling, smiling, pure, energetic. Free.

That same place. A cassette Walkman and those same songs, but many years earlier. A boy pedaling happily, with the wind in his hair and so many dreams to chase, while the music - his music - accompanied him on his journey.

I smiled. I felt a deep human connection to him.

Fly on, stranger kid. Let yourself be carried by the sounds you love. Don't be swayed by others, just live. Dream. Smile. Always be yourself, do what you love. And never stop saying so.

Make your own kind of music.

The First Story

My grandmother was born into a peaceful and economically stable family. They weren't rich, but they lived well. Her grandfather had a textile business that produced specific garments for the Vatican. Her father was a cultured person, intelligent and passionate about technology (I wonder where I got that characteristic from!). He collaborated in the family business, but was also a stationmaster and wrote for some local newspapers. Very active and appreciated in the community. In the early 1900s, he also had a small photography workshop, and many historical photos and postcards of important events were taken by him. For this reason, we have many photos of my grandmother, born in 1920, as a child. Some with her gramophone, which she adored - like many little girls of that era. Many of these photos, unfortunately, have been lost.

When fascism took power in Italy, my great-grandfather was immediately contacted and "advised" that he would have to join the party and write articles aligned with the system. His father was essentially forced (under penalty of losing work contracts with the Vatican itself) and, although reluctant, accepted. He did not. He decided not to openly oppose them, but believed that period was an anomaly that, in his opinion, wouldn't last long. Things, however, went differently.

He was "disowned" by his father (at least publicly) and penalized - the most barbaric and violent part of the community (those who saw him as "successful" and modern) couldn't wait to turn against him. His wife, my grandmother's mother, died very young (I don't know exactly why), but he, as a loving father, still took care of his children with the help of his sister-in-law.

I still remember my grandmother's eyes when, very few times in her life, she told about her family's "night of broken glass". The sun had set a few hours earlier and her father was still at work because some trains had been delayed (so much for those who say trains were always on time back then), so he hadn't come home. As always happened in these cases, his sister-in-law was at home watching the children - my grandmother and her brothers, who were already in bed. She heard knocking and, looking out from a small hidden window, saw a group of men dressed in dark clothes. They were shouting my great-grandfather's name. She understood immediately, ran to the children's room and made them hide under the beds, where she also hid to stay with them.

The thugs broke down the door and began searching. They wanted to give him "a lesson" and, not finding him, decided to break everything they found. Plates, glasses, objects of every kind - both from the house and the children's belongings. They tore clothes, kicked tables and chairs, threw pots on the ground to bend and break them. Unheard-of violence. My grandmother still recounted, with terror in her eyes, those moments. The sound of all their things on the ground, broken and destroyed by the violence of these people. When they entered the bedroom, they saw the children's beds still unmade and thought they had fled. They "limited" themselves to breaking my grandmother's gramophone and the photos of my great-grandmother - the only memory these children had of their mother, who had died recently.

Then they left, saying they would go look for him at the station. To avoid being seen, my grandmother's aunt decided to climb out a back window and run to warn her brother-in-law - but this window was so narrow that, to manage to get through, she injured herself all over (my grandmother remembered the blood) and hurt her shoulder badly. She managed, however, by running, to reach the station before them, and my great-grandfather took refuge, hiding inside a stationary train on a secondary track.

The next day he went to file a report. The local authorities collected the complaint casually and advised him to "understand what times were underway and behave accordingly". The podestà, the highest municipal position in those times, was a close relative of his, but this was of no help.

He died very young - probably, it was said, of brain cancer, but the suspicion of poisoning always remained deeply rooted in many people's minds. My grandmother was orphaned at 15. Some years later, one brother had died, the other was at war. She was alone. She, of extreme intelligence and culture, who associated with the most educated people in the area and dreamed of studying Medicine at university, found herself with distant relatives, not even very kind ones, and with nothing.

My grandfather treated her exemplarily, recognizing her intelligence, culture, and abilities. He was a baker, but felt honored to be beside this woman so beautiful and intelligent, cultured and refined. And she always acknowledged this, thanking him. But she could never forget that everything she was, everything she had, was destroyed in a few years. Her family, devastated. Her dreams, erased. And she didn't tell everything, of this I'm certain. And I will never forget her eyes when she told about all this.

The Second Story

The second story concerns another member of my family, but I won't give further details for privacy reasons. He was a farmer and owned land.

He was a young man who had been orphaned very early. He had sisters who were still very young and his mother, but for various reasons, they couldn't provide concrete work contribution, so he found himself managing everything alone and very, very young. He had the intelligence to understand that he couldn't make it alone and, as was customary in those times, decided to get help from sharecropper families. He, however, was careful but positive, so he gave these people much more than the law itself provided. A few years ago, for example, we met a person who, as soon as he learned of our family connection to this man, told us that his grandparents had been sharecroppers for this gentleman. When their daughter (this man's mother) reached school age (and wanted to study), he said that for the entire duration of the daughter's studies, he wouldn't demand his share, to help the family support her. This person managed to study, graduate and fulfill herself, to the point that she named her son after this gentleman. We had never known this; he had never told anyone. Because those who do good from the heart don't need to tell everyone about it. But anyone who dealt with him knew how good he was.

They were small country villages and there were people who, out of attitude or envy, spoke badly of this gentleman and his family, seeing them as "rich", but they weren't, since they shared much more than necessary with those who worked with them. Not to mention other private reasons and historical dynamics that further reinforced this perception.

When fascism arrived, the village was small and this gentleman tried not to get dragged in. He had an "elderly" mother, sisters still quite young and, despite being of the right age, hadn't married yet. He was absorbed in work, in not going to ruin, and in creating a future for his sisters and for the families who helped him. Even as the years passed, he was focused on the hard daily life, worried about feeding the people he cared about. He therefore didn't join fascism and didn't enlist with the partisans, continuing to work.

Given his condition as fatherless and his role, he wasn't obliged to leave for war and thus managed to continue maintaining a dignified standard of living both for himself and for the families who collaborated with him. For the local anti-fascists, this was "clear proof that he had connections in the party, otherwise he would have gone with the others". Gossips, from whatever political side they may be, always know how to find something to cling to.

When the war ended, in that area there was a strong retaliation against those who had been fascists. In the case of this gentleman, there was no direct attack since, in fact, he had never been one, but that sense of "retaliation" always remained because he hadn't left for war and hadn't enlisted with the partisans - and people who disliked him tried to take advantage of the situation to "punish" him. Specifically (and I have the document that proves it), some of them became politicians and municipal officials. The post-war demographic expansion had generated quite significant growth in the village, and new constructions had become necessary to house the new families.

There was already a law that required a certain amount of public green space for every certain number of inhabitants. That law, over the years, has been further strengthened, but it was already in effect. When this gentleman realized they had made buildable and contracted out (to companies that, it would later be discovered, were connected to cooperatives doubly linked to these officials) the construction of entire buildings right at the border of his land and without any public green space around them, he immediately asked for clarification at city hall: he didn't understand the point of this encirclement. They reassured him because, they told him (and I've seen the related documentation), "in an emergency they could waive that law" and, to prevent the village from expanding too much, they could designate another area as public green space, as long as it was in the same municipality, even if kilometers away. He was reassured but not entirely convinced.

Construction began and finished. Families moved in, and the gentleman received a notice: a summons to city hall. Obviously he went and, to his surprise (but not too much), they informed him that they had built "too much" and needed to create a public park and other "public utility buildings", having reached the critical mass of citizenship for those buildings. They therefore asked for the possibility of purchasing the gentleman's land or, "in case of refusal", to expropriate it. He was stunned: selling was impossible - there was his house, his tools, and the families who worked it. The proposed price, moreover, was insufficient to cover the purchase of another piece of land, cutting off a good part of his family's subsistence (he had another, smaller piece of land not far away). But he positioned himself positively and constructively, trying to find solutions that would be acceptable to everyone, while emphasizing that they had deceived him from the beginning. There was no way to discuss it. This gentleman, no longer very young but not elderly either (a little older than I am today), fell into total anxiety. So severe that he had a serious heart attack, coming close to death. The doctors told him he would have to rest, but he couldn't. He was trying to save the situation. A meeting was scheduled that he tried to postpone, but the officials were inflexible: "if you can't come to us, we'll come to your house". And so it was. When he, still recovering from the heart attack, tried to make a few small observations about how there were other (uncultivated) lands and space to use, the official shouted, "Listen, stop it. You fascists must be stripped of all your assets. If you don't give it to us willingly, we'll take it by force, that is, through expropriation!" He was dumbfounded. Okay, this official was one of those "sitting at the bar talking badly about people who work", but it seemed absurd that after so many years, there was still this (unfounded) accusation of fascism. It was useless that everyone in the village knew this person was foreign to such dynamics. This was the spirit of these people, those who "sat at the bar and envied those who worked". Years later, it would be discovered that in those parts (and not only) many were accused of fascism for the sole purpose of appropriating their assets. But at the time, calling someone a fascist was enough to put them in the public pillory, even without any proof or evidence. And many people, for their own gain, presented themselves as "anti-fascist" solely and exclusively to ride the benefits of the time.

The procedures went forward, so quickly that an expropriation authorization document arrived. Upon seeing the document, this gentleman became so upset that he remained locked in his room for two days, not even having the strength to get out of bed. Then came the final, fatal heart attack.

I'll stop here. I'll only say that, given the "unexpected" event, they managed to hastily organize the execution of the expropriation within 48 hours (incredible timing, in Italy), to carry it out during this person's funeral, convinced that all relatives would be absent. One of them, at the end of the funeral, went to the site of the expropriation and saw the official, with a satisfied smirk, boasting about how he "had taken the land" from this person during his funeral.

Years later the truth would come out: they had built too much, maximizing the builder's profit (a cooperative whose members were, strangely enough, the former "bar chatterers"). In this way, they had cashed in while passing the burden of public green space and services onto this gentleman. For the expropriation of his house, he was awarded a sum comparable to what one would pay today for a mid-level laptop computer.

And the expropriated land? Today it lies uncultivated, almost abandoned. After all, it served no other purpose than to "comply with a law". Public documents today prove this. But many years have passed and all the actors are deceased. In the name of anti-fascism, they plundered a family of honest, correct, and altruistic people.

Conclusion

A man of culture destroyed by fascist violence. A generous man annihilated by the hypocrisy of those who claimed to be anti-fascist. This legacy makes me a convinced anti-fascist, but also a fierce opponent of anyone who, under any banner, uses ideology to crush others. This is why respect for life, freedom, and the dignity of every person are the non-negotiable foundation of my worldview, and this, in turn, I transmit to all my activities.

Like OpenBSD from NetBSD, DragonflyBSD from FreeBSD, or Nextcloud from Owncloud - the examples are endless. It was about freedom, the chance to be part of something or, in some cases, at the very center of something: its development.

To me, Open Source meant having the chance to develop an idea and find other people who shared it, turning what was just a project in my mind into a reality. All without needing big funding, a business plan, or having to risk anything. Just the pleasure of doing it and the joy of seeing it come to life. A waking dream.

Over time, I witnessed many exchanges of opinion - some of them quite heated - that led to hard forks or uncomfortable situations within development teams. People leaving, others taking over - you name it. But, in the end, the software was always at the center. It was an ideological battle over how to implement something (or how NOT to implement it).

This led to some fantastic pairings: Linux, a kernel without an operating system, and GNU, an operating system without a stable and complete kernel. Together, they revolutionized the world, changed the concept of computing, and proved that yes, Open Source works and produces quality software - often of a far greater quality than many of its closed-source, commercial counterparts.

And yet, there were the "distro wars" - and I didn't understand them. And if I didn't understand the distro wars back then, the situation today seems even more extreme. I appreciated the variety, the different ideas, and the different approaches, but never the fanaticism. I was a strong supporter of Debian, but I couldn't understand those who openly attacked alternatives (like Red Hat, at the time, or Suse). I thought: use what you like, contribute if you want but... hey, it's Open Source, you don't pay for it, you're not forced, just choose what you like best! If you're happy, tell the world. If you're dissatisfied, switch (to different software) or change THE software (meaning, implement what you think is necessary). But why wage war on others, on those with different ideas who made different choices? Is it the general polarization fueled by social media? Is it because Open Source has become more mainstream, bringing with it users who have a "consumer" mindset rather than a "collaborator" one?

And yet, there are still positive examples out there — quiet, solid, and often overlooked. The BSD projects, for instance, show us that it's still possible to diverge in philosophy and approach without descending into hostility. FreeBSD, OpenBSD, and NetBSD took different paths. And yet, there are no "wars" between them. Their communities may disagree on technical choices, but they coexist with mutual respect. You rarely see a FreeBSD user shouting "OpenBSD must die!" or a NetBSD developer trolling others on social media. The tone is sober, the work is steady, and the focus remains on the code and its quality - not on brand wars or personal egos.

This is the spirit I fell in love with: different ideas, mutual respect, and the shared goal of building something useful and free. We may not all agree on everything, but we can still build in parallel, learn from each other, and avoid turning diversity into division.

Lately, all of this is becoming truly extreme. I read, for example, sharp and violent opinions from Wayland users against X11 (Xorg, etc.) - "it must die!" But, I wonder, why this violence?

I use Wayland on Linux and X11 on FreeBSD - both on the same computer, both with satisfaction. Why should I hate one of them? If I don't like it... I simply don't use it.

The world is becoming increasingly polarized and bitter, making people less and less inclined towards dialogue or tolerance for those with different ideas or positions. But, I ask myself, why should this be happening in the world of Open Source?

We are all in the same boat. We have the tools, the freedom of choice, and it costs us nothing. If we don't like a solution, we can say so and choose something else. Why this violence? Cui prodest? Who benefits?

When we fight violently over Open Source software, when we lash out with intolerance against a solution we dislike, the entire Open Source world loses an opportunity. The opportunity to reduce the chances of ending up in a computing monoculture, the opportunity to have a choice, the opportunity for someone to listen to our well-reasoned observations and learn from them.

It's up to us, every day, with every comment and contribution, to decide whether we want to build bridges or raise walls.

This isn't a BSDCan report, but a general reflection that emerged after participating in the event itself. There's the event, but there's me inside it.

The first question I received, when I went to greet the BSD community present in the days before the conference (there for the FreeBSD dev summit and tutorials) was asked by someone I deeply respect and admire, extremely active and positive for the entire BSD world. "Where have you been for the last 20 years?"

Off the cuff, I replied that I'd been busy doing things, but the truth (which I clarified the next day) is that I didn't feel ready to be an "active" member of the community itself. And the reasons are many, too many and too personal to be expressed here, but at the core there's a specific reason: I didn't feel up to it. Perhaps a form of impostor syndrome - without wanting to put a name to it, basically I felt like a tiny gnat among a group of giants.

I'm not an operating systems developer or an expert dev, I don't work at a company with thousands of servers, I'm not an ISP and I don't work for one. What could I have said or done, me, among them? And for so many years, I witnessed wars of every kind - online and not only - between people (even experts) who, just to excel, feel entitled to mistreat or offend others.

I didn't feel up to it. I didn't feel worthy of participating in conferences or events with people of this level. Except then, every time, I would look with sadness and healthy envy at all the reports, videos, and images of those who had participated instead.

I missed wonderful conferences, fantastic locations, but especially the opportunity to interact, years ago already, with amazing people - some of whom, unfortunately, are no longer with us.

When last September I participated in EuroBSDCon in Dublin, I understood that I had gotten everything wrong and that I hadn't fully grasped how wonderful the BSD community was, made up of real and respectful people, people who, like me, want to share their ideas, experiences, projects, and intentions with openness and respect.

And from here, an even stronger feeling took root inside me. Namely, that it's important to live life and leave nothing untried. If we want to do something, as long as it doesn't harm others, let's do it. Time flows and what's past doesn't come back.

In my case, it's not too late. BSD Conferences will continue to happen, year after year, and I'm already excited and preparing for the next EuroBSDCon - after all, it's only three months away. Because the people who organize them, the people who participate, and the entire BSD community in general have much in common with my way of seeing technology, software, and life.

I had the honor (and terror) of speaking right after Margo Seltzer, but everyone put me at ease. English isn't my native language and I was still a bit dazed from jet lag, but seeing BSD world friends sitting and ready to listen to what I had to say gave me the push to speak, to talk, to tell and tell about myself. And the feedback was really positive - many came to talk to me and share their experiences, ideas, and thoughts. In a healthy and positive way. Making me feel extremely comfortable.

Some speakers cited my talk, sharing the passion and enthusiasm. Unexpected, extremely appreciated.

I'm not a particularly extroverted person. I like to talk and communicate, but deep down, I'm shy. And I saw many shy people, both in Dublin and Ottawa, participate in the event without having any problems. Because the BSD community doesn't force anyone to be talkative but cares that everyone can be comfortable. Just as I should have done 20 years ago, going to attend conferences, in the serenity of being able to be myself.

I lost something wonderful for 20 years, but it's not too late.

Live life. Don't postpone, don't feel uncomfortable, don't worry about being judged by others. Overcome fears, overcome hesitations. Because one day you'll be disappointed about what you wanted to do and didn't do, but you'll never be disappointed for having at least tried.

For me, BSDCan was this: going to Canada for the first time, the journey, the preparation, the anxiety before my presentation and the relaxation, peace, and joy in the subsequent phases, talking with fantastic people and always feeling at ease.

Unless there are particular problems, I won't miss it. Because life must be lived and we must do what makes us feel good, finding ourselves among friends talking about the things that unite us. Without limits, without geography, without narrow ideologies.

Let's focus on what we like, on what we have in common.

Live life. Every single day.

The harshest critics weren't senior developers or security experts. They were junior developers - often the exact ones most at risk of being replaced by the tools they were defending so passionately. Kids fresh out of bootcamps telling me I was "stuck in the past" for suggesting they should actually understand the code they're shipping to production.

The pushback wasn't just in the comments. Someone I don't know shared my original post, "Vibe Coding Will Rob Us of Our Freedom" on Reddit's r/programming. It was removed by moderators for being "clickbait" title and an "unpopular topic". It seems I'd touched a nerve. Some of the feedback I got elsewhere made me think even more.

It reminded me of something, and it took me a while to put my finger on what. Then it hit me: Stockholm syndrome.

Here were people defending - almost evangelizing - the very thing that could make them obsolete. And not just defending it quietly, but attacking anyone who dared suggest there might be risks worth considering.

I've been thinking about this pattern a lot lately, and once you see it, you can't unsee it. It's everywhere.

There's the gig economy worker who gets aggressive if you criticize the platform that pays them below minimum wage and offers no benefits. "It's freedom!" they'll insist, while working 70-hour weeks just to pay rent. The open office enthusiast who swears the noise and lack of privacy make them "more collaborative", even as their productivity tanks and stress levels soar.

Hell, I see it in tech all the time. The developer who defends the surveillance capitalism of their favorite platform. The startup employee who brags about their "unlimited PTO" policy - you know, the one where nobody actually takes vacation because there's no clear boundary between work and life.

But why does this happen? Why do we become cheerleaders for our own demise?

I think it's because recognizing a threat means admitting vulnerability, and that's terrifying. It's much easier to reframe yourself as an "early adopter" or a "forward thinker" than to face the possibility that you might be getting screwed.

There's also the sunk cost thing. Once you've publicly embraced something - especially if you've built part of your identity around it - backing down feels like admitting you were an idiot. Better to double down than face that uncomfortable truth.

And then there's the illusion of control. When you're using a powerful tool, you feel powerful, even if you're actually giving up agency. The junior dev cranking out AI-generated code feels like a wizard, even though they couldn't debug a simple loop if their life depended on it.

But here's the thing that really gets me: every time we choose the comfortable lie over the uncomfortable truth, we pay a price. The programmer who never learns to actually program. The worker who accepts worse and worse conditions because they've convinced themselves it's "flexibility". The person who trades privacy for convenience without really understanding what they're losing.

It's not just about individual careers or rights. It's about collective autonomy. Every time a generation stops understanding the tools they use, they become dependent on whoever controls those tools.

I'm not saying we should reject all new technology or that change is always bad. But there's a difference between tools that empower us and tools that replace us. Between systems that make us more capable and systems that make us more dependent.

The trick is having the guts to look honestly at which is which.

Last week I was talking to a friend who runs a small construction company. He was telling me about how all the big contractors in town are pushing "smart" building systems that require constant cloud connectivity and subscription services. Meanwhile, he's still using techniques that have worked for decades, tools he can fix himself, materials he understands completely.

"They keep telling me I'm behind the times" he said. "But when their fancy systems go down, who do they call?"

Maybe being "behind the times" isn't always a bad thing. Maybe sometimes it means you still own your tools instead of renting them.

The next time you catch yourself getting defensive about something - really defensive, like you're personally offended that someone would dare question it - maybe pause for a second. Ask yourself: am I defending this because it's actually good for me, or because I'm scared to imagine alternatives?

Because the first step toward freedom is always the same: admitting you might be wearing chains.

Well, let's hope not. But I've lived long enough to have understood some things. Things that, luckily, I managed to understand before it was too late. But just a moment ago, by chance, I heard this melody in the distance. And my mind began to wander...

I suppose someone reading this will think it's too long for modern attention spans. Too reflective, too winding. That I should make it more "digestible", more optimized for quick consumption. How curious, though - writing about the importance of staying true to yourself, only to have it judged by the standards of what "works" online. Perhaps that's precisely the point I'm trying to make.

Recently, I heard news about someone I've known for years but with whom I've had virtually no contact for quite a while. I'm sorry because they were a nice person, but lately, they seem hard to reach. Speaking with mutual acquaintances, I found out this person isn't at peace, and it saddens me. But the root of this is that they're living a life different from the one they, deep down, would have wanted. A life made of deadlines, like a checklist, because the society they live in expected this. None of these things, ultimately, will ever make this person happy. But they must do them, due to social convention. And this is common among many people I know.

"Regrets, I've had a few But then again, too few to mention"

There was a time in my life when I ran the same risk. For years, I felt strange because I didn't behave as society, conventions, and friends wanted me to. As I should have been. Instead, I persisted in being who I wanted to be. But it was tough, at times almost impossible. Compromises were made, of course, but without betraying my essence. Until I understood that I wasn't the "strange" one. I just wanted to be myself, but for many, that precisely means "strangeness". For years, I had little contact with old friends and my places of origin because I wanted to be myself and measure myself by who I was, not by others' ambitions. And I loved that life, and it's the life I still carry with me today. By sharpening my gaze, broadening my horizons, expanding my views and positions, I was able to find a world where I wasn't strange; I was just myself. Because if I'm not passionate about football, despite being an "Italian male", and therefore don't follow it, it doesn't mean I'm strange; it means I'm honest. And this is just the most trivial example that comes to mind.

"I've loved, I've laughed and cried I've had my fill, my share of losing"

No, it wasn't easy at all. I only understand that now, and I had to give up so much. I'll carry many of the scars from all this for life, just as I still sometimes pay the consequences. Especially in the words and actions of people who didn't do this, who didn't have the courage to do it. Trapped in a life not their own, but one written in the book of traditions. In the book of what they must do, not what they want to do. But it brought me what I have today, to do what I do today, to be who I am today. My wife, my work, my life are all positive consequences of this, and of the people who, even without understanding, supported me. Waking up every morning with the positivity to face a day that I already know will be full of things I love to do. And I do them my way. My way.

"For what is a man, what has he got? If not himself, then he has naught"

There was truly a moment when I had nothing. They called me crazy because I wanted to work for myself. I'd look at the silent phone and worry about the bills coming in. I had to pay taxes and, out of pride, I went to paint walls to earn the money to pay them. They told me it wasn't right to make servers stable because it reduced revenue. But I don't know how to (knowingly) do something that could harm those who trust me. And yet - I remember - I never doubted my choices. I was strange, perhaps, but I knew what I wanted.

"Yes, it was my way"

My way. Because my life is mine, and I don't like to fool anyone, least of all myself.

And as I write, I'm listening to this wonderful song, one of my favorites. And a very distant memory, across space and time, surfaces in my mind. And memories re-emerge, emotions return vividly, because music, scents, and flavors possess this immense power to collapse time, to faithfully transport us back to a distant life. Towards a moment and a world far away, yet always near because, in its evolution, it is part of us. And it is precisely tied to a brief moment, a fragment of this music, yet rendered eternal - though unrepeatable - by its poetry, its energy, and that very instant. This too, born from my choices, which, right or wrong, will always serve to remind me that my decisions, good or bad, will have been MINE.

And I will have lived my way.

In the digital age where technology advances at a breakneck speed, consumers find themselves caught in a cycle of continuous upgrades. However, amidst this relentless push for the new and improved, there lies a trove of still-functional, albeit outdated, electronic devices. These relics of past technology cycles, from old cell phones to tablets, often end up relegated to the dark corners of drawers, gathering dust but still holding potential. Through my own experiences and reflections, I've come to see these devices not as obsolete but as underutilized resources that could still serve valuable purposes.

Consider, for example, the old Motorola phone that once belonged to my mother. Discarded due to its lack of security updates, it sits idle, despite its capabilities that are on par with an old Raspberry Pi. Equipped with a screen, robust built-in WiFi, an array of sensors, and a camera, this Android terminal, abandoned since 2018, encapsulates the paradox of modern technology: highly functional yet prematurely obsolete. The insecurity of running software on such an outdated device is palpable, yet it's hard not to think about the wasted potential.

The European Union, often criticized for its bureaucratic leanings, has shown that progress is possible, as seen in its mandate for USB-C standardization. This begs the question: why not take it a step further? Imagine if manufacturers were required to unlock their devices for consumer use after official support ends. This would open the door for the installation of updated OpenSource operating systems, detached from the original Android ecosystem, or at the very least, an AOSP version of Android. This approach would empower users to breathe new life into their devices, adhering to a principle of "You've bought my device; I won’t update it anymore, but you can keep it running since the hardware still works."

My own drawers are filled with such high-quality, yet abandoned devices. For instance, I'd prefer to repurpose my old Huawei as a surveillance camera rather than rely on a new device that might compromise my privacy by sending images to obscure clouds hosted in jurisdictions with questionable laws. This sentiment underscores a broader desire for autonomy and security in how we manage our technology.

However, the road to this ideal state is fraught with challenges. I'm contemplating starting a petition to address this issue, although I'm aware of the potential hurdles. The concept of planned obsolescence is deeply ingrained in the fabric of today's technology landscape, supported by a complex web of interests that resist change. Despite this, the conversation around the lifespan of our devices and the potential for a more sustainable approach to technology use is one that needs to be had. It's time to reconsider our relationship with technology, to envision a future where devices are not just disposable commodities but lasting tools that evolve with us.

Today, I read this news: Ring video doorbell customers angry at 43% price hike (BBC News). Meaning soon, Ring users will have to pay much more to use the company's "cloud" services.

Last week, a client informed me they would be moving their e-commerce (working, successful, efficient, and stable) from Magento to Shopify. I jumped in my seat: "And why?" "Because this way we don't have to depend on developers and hosting but have everything ours, just consultants on how to manage it." It makes no difference to me, but I asked them: "Ours? Currently, the server is yours (physical host lease on an important provider), the database is yours, the backups are on your disks in your data center. In such a standard that allows restoration in a few minutes, on any hardware. Once everything is migrated to Shopify, who is the real owner of your data?" Their answer: "But it's us, it's our e-commerce!" It took me about half an hour to explain to them that no, nothing is theirs. They will use another's platform, on another's servers, with data stored in a proprietary format (of another, accessible only to another) and at prices that, from time to time, others will decide. But, unfortunately, salespeople are more skilled than technicians, and by now, they are convinced. I am sure they will regret it, sooner or later, but it will be too late.

Today's business thrives on data. Data is the only thing that matters to them. Our smartphones, our operating systems (not open-source) are effectively tools useful to the companies that produce them to collect data on us and sell it.

Reflecting on how we arrived at this point, we cannot ignore the technological evolution of the last decades. At the dawn of the digital age, data were contained within the physical borders of our hard disks, almost as if they were locked in a home safe. Today, however, we live in the era of the cloud, where our data float in a digital limbo, often beyond our direct reach. This transformation has not only been technological but also cultural, pushing us towards an economy of convenience where ownership seems an obsolete concept. Yet, as in any evolution, there have been trade-offs, especially regarding the control and security of our personal and business data.

The trend of using managed Kubernetes clusters and remote storage solutions poses another layer of complexity. Are you still able to recover and replicate your data in case the provider will cease operations, increase prices, or change terms? This scenario echoes the plight of many companies who put their data "in the cloud" but found pulling them out so expensive that they're now glued to the provider.

In other cases, the purpose is a strong lock-in, as in the case, for example, of the main management systems used by accountants in Italy. By law, there is an obligation to preserve data for a certain number of years. In the event of a change in management system, they will be forced to continue paying a (very high) fee for years just to have access to their "own" archive. Note the quotation marks around own: if I have to pay not to lose access to something that is mine, it is not mine.

When we agree to use a SaaS, we are putting our data in the hands of others, risking losing both access and control over them. In some cases, even ownership. Who, then, is the real owner of our data?

We are the only and exclusive owners when:

• We can freely access our data, without having to ask or pay.
• We can freely copy our data, without permissions or requests from third parties.
• We can know, at any time, where the data is and, if possible, have a copy "under the desk".
• We can export them to another format, making them future-proof.

Facing this challenge requires a change in mindset and the search for alternatives. Open source, for example, offers not only transparency but also greater control over our digital tools. Platforms that allow hosting our own data, like Nextcloud for storage or the Fediverse (for example, Mastodon and other similar solutions) for social, can be ways out of this labyrinth, giving us back control. Moreover, familiarizing ourselves with the principles of data minimization and self-hosting can be a first step in reducing our dependence on third-party solutions that treat our data more as merchandise than as a personal right.

The question of who is the real owner of our data is not just rhetorical but an alarm bell for our digital autonomy. It's time to reflect on the long-term implications of our technological choices and to consider concrete steps to reassert control over our data.