Racism in Italy video: the different story

Stories and News No. 691

You have heard this story.
You have already seen this movie.
We already told this story, all together.
And lived.
We were all there.
We all.
And we'll be there tomorrow.
We were Jews in Nazi concentration camps.
And in the same place we were Roma and homosexuals.
Wrong creatures.
Living mistakes.
We were Negroes, yes, Negroes in the cotton fields.
Lynched and hanged in the darkness of the woods.
Or even in the public square.
We were also women.
Yes, women.
Women with the insane conviction to be something more than a man.
The same level, at least.
Witches to burn.
Because the more dangerous magic is when the dreams of the others obscure your nightmares.
We were crazy.
Chronic feverish people with an innate propensity for the art of delirium.
Damned by birth.
Or imitation of really mad parents.
Soul powder to hide under padded carpets.
We were also gays.
Lesbians.
Or any other unpredictability pieces in myopic sexual horizons.
Sinful, vicious, sick or unconscious.
Of forbidden love.
We were drugged.
Incurably toxic in the heart.
Noisy and clumsy.
Because addiction is never a problem, if you do not stain my dress.
We were Italians, really, Italians.
Or even just from south.
To the north or in each new world.
Dirty and ignorant people.
Dark hair and skin.
Stealing jobs for a few dollars or pounds.
Spreading crime in the streets.
We were of course illegal.
Immigrants.
Read everything, really everything, as the easiest enemy in our hands.

We know this story.
We have already done this movie.
We have already heard this novel.
And lived.
Because we were there.
We were all there.
And we, again, will be.
This will go on.
It will happen again.
Here it is, that is there, on the screen.
On the last page.
In the final scene that never changes.
The coward gets strong thanks to crowd composed by the same pusillanimity.
They shout, spit, and attack the prey, foaming at the mouth.
They devours the latter, every day, now.
Even now they are doing this.
Until they find another, more fragile.
Less defensible.
Prey.

I'm tired of this story.
I am not afraid.
And you too should be not.
Because sooner or later we may be, again, everyone.
All.
The cowardly assailant.
As the prey.
But also the one who writes another story.
Diverse...




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