The refugee from the sea and the man on the shore

Stories and News No. 779

A man emerges from the sea.
A few steps and he is on the land.
Yes, a few steps.
Because this is the true distance.
Another man is coming on the shore.
From the inside.
In an instant they are close.
Sure, instant.
Because this is the time that really matters.
"Who are you?" the latter asks.
"I am a refugee."
"Please to meet you", the other replies.
"Please to meet you? Is this a joke?"
"No, it is not. Why do you ask me that?"
"Because I never thought that..."
"Look, I stop you immediately, I know what you mean. Maybe you are thinking that this is not your land, that it belongs to us, but it's a lie. I don’t know where you has read or heard about it, but we are all squatters, here, from birth, by definition. Our so-called nations are built on stolen lands, on the extermination of the natives, on the exploitation of natural resources that we can only enjoy in a high-definition video on Youtube..."
"Yes, I know that too, but there's also this thing..."
"Terrorist? This is what you were going to say? Listen, do you seem possible that the rest of us can accuse anyone of having actually caused terror or just having the intentions? We are the masters of fear, we are the lords of the nightmare, the mother of all human phobias. Since many generations we teach our children to fear before love, to distrust before hope, to marginalize before understand. And we learned the lesson so well being obsessed with projecting an image of ourselves on others, confident that they are ugly as we do."
"I understand, but there is also the problem of..."
"Religion, I see, is known stuff. Maybe you read about our mysterious aversion to other beliefs, but this is a falsehood too, my friend, one of the most paradoxical ones, indeed. I mean, we are still prisoners of a medieval concept of faith, to say the least, where stoning, traditional or digital, is still the favorite sport of the strong believers. We have not yet solved trivial stuff according to our therapists, such as the relationship between sexuality and religion, and intersections eliminated centuries ago from worthy to be called modern people as the one among church and state. What authority we have to judge or even talk of others?"
"Yes, all right, but..."
"There is not but that counts, forgive me for interrupting you again. Indeed, just forgive me, for everything."
"Everything what?"
"I am talking of all nonsense that you have heard about us before arriving here. Forgive us, because we are an infinitely divided people. We do anything to isolate us from one another. Nations, regions, provinces, cities, neighborhoods, buildings, apartments, the same hole that our room can be, the fragile kingdom under the bed blankets, the blind life we lived up to now protected by armies of illusions that we hide in our belly. We are ignorant people, incredibly ignorant. We do believe only what we see, but we also do everything, day after day, to see less and less. We are people who, in fact, demonstrated their ability to discriminate anything transits before their eyes. From head to toe, colors, shapes, sounds and so on, everything becomes instantly necessary and sufficient information to catalog the others. Enemies, intruders, villains, uncivilized, dangerous, criminal, immoral, we feel them everywhere, just opening our eyes..."
The man who earlier had arisen from the sea waves remains silent and looks the other guy puzzled and admired.
"Well," he says with relief in his voice, "everything I would have expected such a welcome. I'm happy, what's your name? "
The other man looks around, then raises his hands and watches as if he were seeing them for the very first time.
"I have not the faintest idea," he responds unexpectedly lost and with little hope he adds: "But I want desperately to be real..."

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Stories and News of illusions and hopes

Stories and News No. 778

I am somewhat delusional, but I know it.
I am also someone who hopes, but do not think big.
I do not need much, really.
Look at those people who yell and rant against migrants in Quinto di Treviso and Casale San Nicola, in Italy.
They are creatures infinitely more deluded than myself and probably they have no more hopes.
And if you take away the odds-on tomorrow to humans, filling at the same time their head with delirious ravings, it is understandable that then they become convinced of being able to stop a tidal wave with a breath.
Because this is the design of their sad and foolish actions.
I do not speak of the present time, the burnt gifts and the bitter spectacle of a brutal intolerance that repeats itself in history.
In the past as in the future there is the answer: those who struggle to survive, really to survive, sooner or later will always prevail the mad along the way.
I know, I'm a little deluded being sometimes persuaded that words can somehow change things.
In fact, that's because I am one who hopes, but nothing exceptional.
I'll settle for little things, indeed.
These tiny stories thrown there, into the screaming world’s delirium.
To make the picture that I see every day more acceptable to my weary eyes.
Yes, I confess, I need glasses to read since a while.
I'm a little worried.
Because now I am going to take a break.
It always happens, every time.
I need to write, absorbing life and filling blank sheets.
It works as the lenses above.
It helps me to understand and understand myself.
See and see myself.
And the next moment I feel the irrepressible need to share.
Not seconding the latter at all, as when I was a boy.
I hope that the habit of asking myself if what I will throw in the sea is worth people’s time has established.
Time, here is the real wealth.
At the end of the day, I feel only compassion for those who have got even a few hours in their hands and decide to throw it away.
Burning it.
As the unhappy citizens of Quinto di Treviso and Casale San Nicola.
I am somewhat delusional, I know perfectly.
But I'm also someone who hopes, but do not image a paradise.
I would be satisfied with small stuff.
To see with my own eyes just a little fragment of the changes I've always dreamed of.
See you soon.


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What Merkel told Palestinian child refugee to make her cry: forgive us

Stories and News No. 777

"I understand, you're very nice, but in Palestinian refugee camps in Lebanon there are thousands and thousands of people and we cannot welcome all."
Words and music by Angela Merkel to a young girl, a Palestinian refugee, who a moment before said she does not know if she will remain in Germany, expressing also her own discomfort at seeing her peers living their lives.
Unlike her.
Then the tears arrived and everything froze...

Forgive us.
Forgive us all of you, watching from afar.
Or close, although it makes no difference to us.
It is not a personal matter.
If we can no longer see.
You, us, me.
Them, all.
Yet the words abound and evade without interruption.
As we cannot welcome all.
Or everyone must stay in his country.
Italy to the Italians, Germans to Germans and France to the French.
Europe for the Europeans.
And Africa to Africans...
Well, maybe we should remove the latter, otherwise you would never have had any reason to exist in our delusional nightmares.
Forgive us, since we speak and write as we think: with a blindfolded heart and a chained belly.
Since immemorial time we are no more used to us, you, me.
Them, all.
And every possible conjugation of human existence.
That is a fraud, it is true.
Vulgar words and mixtures of the latter travel profusely in a fair-minded, from the influential news and the prestigious lips to less noble creature on the way, but sooner or later you'll have to learn that these are illusory as inert melodies.
As the ringing of the phone and the creak of the door, the sizzle of the coffee pot on the stove and the trampling of important heels, even hard breathing and a laughter.
It seems human stuff, but it is not sure at all if there is still behind.
Human stuff.
That's why when we meet a face wet by tears, eyes moist by real pain and a voice choked up by the same suffering, the horrid Ferris wheel stops.
We ask your forgiveness.
We always talked so much about you.
But the truth is that we do not have the faintest idea of what it means.
To be you…

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Bear hunting Italy: to kill or not to kill

Stories and News No. 776

“Bears are too many and we must capture or kill them.”
This is the solution of the Trentino’s (North Italy region) government to solve the bears problem.
All according to the script...

Once upon there was the “too much”.
A very few notes must be written about the latter on the instructions manual of the modern human beings.
However, there is no answer for the following question: what should we do with the too much?
No one seems having taught our generation how to deal with it.
Sure, not that small bunch of people who has the honor, the privilege and the responsibility, rather than pride, presumption and arrogance to decide for the many.
By the way, we should never forgot that for the vast majority of the world the “too much” is something unreal.
A kind of mirage, to dream in the rare quiet nights.
Maybe you may find it between the desires of the most brave people, those ones with the absurd claim of searching for it.
The too much.
The rest of us, however, have simple and lace answers.
We used to imprison and kill it.
We like to burn and bury it under the carpet.
Made of land or memory, it does not matter.
Often we destroy it or it dies alone for solitude.
Sometimes we wait that it will spoil.
Then nature will do its job.
Read as well as the diabolical ability to turn putrid stuff in gold.
A skill that many have become experts of.
Then someone who has turned his dreams in gold comes.
Even myrrh or frankincense.
Anything is ok, look.
No more just dreams is perfect.
We see also this as “too much”.
Like a bear that looks for what the majority of mankind is still wishing.
Food and water.
Life, survival.
That's why when they are too much we just want them dead.
We used to do this with our fellow humans.
Let alone with the bears...

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