There is something I think we talk about far too little when discussing sovereignty: fear.
Not the kind of fear that politicians admit to on camera. I mean something deeper, almost instinctive, that has always been part of international politics: the fear of losing the protection of the system you belong to.
A country can be formally sovereign. It can have a parliament, an elected government, a constitution, and an army. But that does not necessarily mean it can do whatever it wants. Legal sovereignty is one thing. Real sovereignty, when countries confront one another within an international balance of power, is something else entirely.
And when I look at the history of the Western sphere of influence, that distinction is difficult to ignore.
Take Mohammad Mossadegh. In 1951, Iran's prime minister nationalized his country's oil industry, challenging enormous British interests. Two years later, he was overthrown in a coup involving the CIA and British intelligence. This is not conspiracy theory. Operation Ajax is a documented historical event.
Then came Salvador Allende.
Again, we are looking at a government that pursued a political and economic course deeply opposed to American interests. The United States intervened extensively in Chile and in the events surrounding the 1973 coup. Allende died inside the presidential palace, and Pinochet took power.
These are obviously different stories. But they tell us something remarkably simple: when the interests of a hegemonic power collide with those of a country within its sphere of influence, the balance of power matters more than declarations of principle.
And then there is Italy.
Bettino Craxi was neither Mossadegh nor was Italy in the 1980s comparable to Iran in 1953. It would be absurd to suggest otherwise. But Sigonella remains, in my view, one of the most revealing episodes for understanding what it means to pursue an independent foreign policy while remaining part of the Western alliance.
In 1985, Craxi effectively told the Americans that Italy was in charge on Italian soil. He prevented U.S. forces from taking direct custody of the hijackers responsible for the Achille Lauro incident and asserted Italian sovereignty.
It was a moment of confrontation.
And this is where the story becomes more disturbing.
Investigations into illegal political party financing did not begin in 1992. That system had existed for years. It was known, practiced and, in many cases, tolerated. Then came Tangentopoli.
Suddenly, the system that had sustained Italy's First Republic for decades began to collapse.
I am not saying that someone simply ordered prosecutors to go after Craxi. My argument is different: Craxi gradually lost the political protection that had helped give him room to pursue a degree of autonomy.
And when protection disappears, things that were once tolerated can suddenly become much harder to sustain.
This dynamic does not require an all-powerful control room somewhere in the shadows.
In fact, that is precisely what makes it more powerful.
The most effective form of power is not the one that constantly has to issue orders. It is the one that makes people understand, in advance, where the boundaries lie.
No one necessarily needs to call a prime minister and say, "Don't do this."
The prime minister already knows the price of defiance.
He knows what it means to break with his country's most powerful ally. He knows what international isolation can look like. He knows how much his country depends on military alliances, intelligence, technology, energy, finance and trade.
And so he stops before crossing the line.
In my view, this is one of the most sophisticated forms of power.
Not censorship. Self-censorship.
And this is where the argument reaches Italy today.
On the one hand, we have governments that call themselves sovereignist and constantly invoke the national interest. On the other, we have a country deeply embedded in the Western political, economic and military architecture, with a dependence on the United States that extends far beyond defence.
Take energy.
After the break with Russia, Europe was forced to radically reshape its energy supply system. A significant share of Russian gas was replaced by other sources, including American LNG.
The question we should be asking is not simply whether that decision was right or wrong.
The question is: how free is a country to choose when its energy security depends on a particular geopolitical system?
The same applies to military security.
Italy is a NATO member. Italian territory hosts military infrastructure that is deeply integrated into the Western strategic architecture. Our armed forces rely on weapons systems, technology and infrastructure embedded in a network in which the United States has enormous influence.
We can call it an alliance.
We can call it cooperation.
We can call it Western solidarity.
But one thing does not change: relations between allies are not based on solidarity alone. They are also shaped by power.
And this is where modern sovereignism runs into a curious contradiction.
You can be sovereignist toward Brussels. You can defend national borders, speak about Italian identity and invoke the national interest.
But what happens when Italy's national interest genuinely collides with America's?
That is the moment of truth.
Not when speeches are delivered.
Not when flags are waved.
But when you have to say no to an ally that is vastly more powerful than you.
That is when sovereignty is actually tested.
And that is precisely why the stories of Mossadegh, Allende and Craxi remain interesting, at least as an interpretive framework.
Not because they are the same story.
They are not.
But because all three can be read as variations on the same question: what is the price of autonomy?
How independent can a country afford to be when it belongs to the sphere of influence of a great power?
How far can a government raise its head before the system begins to push back?
And above all: how much does sovereignty have to be exercised before we can actually call it sovereignty?
Perhaps the point is not that the United States directly controls every decision made by its allies.
That would actually be too simplistic.
The point is that there is a structure of power in which some countries possess vastly greater capacity to influence others. And everyone knows it.
Governments know it.
Diplomats know it.
Military establishments know it.
Foreign ministries know it.
And the people governing Rome know it too.
That is why the most important fear is not necessarily the fear of ending up like Mossadegh or Allende.
It is something subtler.
The fear of losing protection.
The fear of being left alone.
The fear that the moment you decide to go against the current, all those protections that once seemed natural may suddenly disappear.
And perhaps this is the most modern form of hegemony.
You do not need to constantly tell others what they must do.
It is enough for them to know what might happen if they choose not to.
At that point, sovereignty continues to exist on paper.
Parliament continues to vote.
Governments continue to govern.
Elections continue to take place.
But the real boundary of sovereignty is no longer simply the one written into the constitution.
It is the invisible line separating what a country is capable of doing from what it can actually afford to do.
And perhaps that is where we should look for the difference between formal sovereignty and real sovereignty.
