On Pegli beach in Genoa, Italy, a Congolese man whipped out his dick last Sunday and began jerking off in broad daylight, directly in front of families and playing children. Local men responded by beating him. A strong independent Italian woman, whose face is now plastered all over the internet stepped in to protect the masturbator. I’ve included the video below, just so all of us are on the same page. Google is desperate to bury stuff like this, but I dug it up anyway.
The question is why? Not why was the Congolese man masturbating on a public beach. All of us know why the Congolese man was masturbating. Why was the Italian woman defending the masturbator?
No one here is judging the Congolese man for publicly masturbating on a beach. Why? Because we are not racists.
All of us already know that Congolese tribesmen have a ritual where they gather in sacred ritual space and dry hump the earth and masturbate as a group. It is a fertility rite, which links the tribe as an erotic brotherhood and connects their sexuality with the rhythms of nature. All of us know this, respect this and even celebrate this. No one here is going to judge a Congolese man for being Congolese. Because we are not racists.
The real racist is the woman getting in the way of the beating. Why? Because just as Congolese men have a cultural tradition of public masturbation, Italian men and European men broadly have a cultural tradition of ganging up in groups and beating people in order to preserve social order and decency. In a multicultural society we must treat all cultures as equal, the Italian and the Congolese. Which is why I am particularly appalled by this woman’s racist behavior, which certainly needs a thorough analysis.
However, before we can do that, we must contextualize each culture’s relationship to masturbation, through the intersectionality of culture race and class. First and best is traditional Congolese ritual masturbation which is done as a group and is a positive pro-social activity with deep spiritual implications. Next there is modern white working-class masturbation which is lonely and depressing, hunched over the toilet in darkness as the obese working class wife hibernates. Next there is postmodern white liberal masturbation, which is a cheap copy of the traditional and is done at sexuality workshops at exorbitant cost. Finally there is Epstein’s island which functions as a radicalization of the Congolese but under the cultural practices of the liberal white woman so it is truly a Hegelian synthesis of Postmodernity and tribal culture.
Now ask yourself: who is the Persecutor, the Rescuer, and the Victim on that beach in Genoa?
A racist would claim that the children and families enjoying their day are the victims, the masturbating African is the persecutor, and the Italian men who beat him are the rescuers. But that is obviously racist and wrong, because racism is wrong.
A liberal would instead argue that the victim is the masturbating man, the persecutors are the men beating him, and the rescuer is the brave unnamed white woman who stepped in to protect him. However, that analysis is shallow and fails to address the real violence taking place. Far worse than physical violence is the violence of cultural erasure.
If we truly examine all the facts and understand the embodied cultural practice, the truth becomes clear. The true Persecutor is the white liberal woman attempting cultural genocide against the Congolese masturbator, who is clearly the Victim. The real rescuers are the Italian men who, in no uncertain terms, explained that the only way for him to preserve his vibrant culture is to return to the Congo. After all, what is worse: being hit with a plastic chair or forgetting the sacred traditions of your ancestors?
This brings me to my riveting conclusion. What motivated this vile outbreak of cultural erasure on the beautiful beaches of Genoa? What prompted this vicious, self-styled progressive white woman to embark on her disgusting colonial policy of cultural erasure right there on Pegli beach?
The answer lies in the difference between a prestige economy and a consequence economy. In the virtual reality of social media, status comes from being seen as the virtuous white savior who “protects the marginalized.” She gains prestige points by intervening on behalf of the Congolese man, regardless of the actual scene unfolding in front of families and children. In this economy, image is everything and real-world consequences are distant abstractions.
She couldn't care less about erosion of public decency, destruction of cultural commons for Italian families, or the slow breakdown of social order that ordinary people experience. Her actions are the natural product of a world where signaling compassion online matters far more than protecting the actual culture and community that raised her.
In the end, true respect for multiculturalism would mean respecting both the Congolese fertility rites and the Italian tradition of maintaining public order. Instead, by shielding the man from accountability, she revealed herself as the real racist. Easing vibrant African tradition in the name of European liberal guilt is the real crime, polluting this beautiful Italian beach.
As anti-racist African sympathizers, we are incredibly saddened by cultural chauvinism in all its forms. That is why it is our moral obligation to educate her and others like her to stop thinking of the world in terms of maximizing Instagram likes, but in terms of maximizing the wellbeing of our multicultural society.
If you’ve made it this far and the sting of recognition is still burning, you already understand why the usual scripts feel so exhausted. The conversations that matter: the ones too dangerous, too funny, and too clear-eyed for the official channels, are already taking place among those willing to look directly at what the beach in Genoa actually revealed. My book goes deeper into that same territory, tracing the same fault lines through institutions, incentives, and the quiet collapse of shared reality. Those who pick it up now are the ones positioning themselves ahead of the next inevitable flashpoint, while the rest remain glued to their feeds, waiting for permission to notice what’s already obvious. The window is narrower than it looks. Step inside before the next spectacle makes the choice for you.
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