Italy Earthquake 2016 story is old

Stories and News No. 922

Hundreds of people in central Italy woke up this morning in makeshift shelters, in state of shock and exhaustion, after their cities were hit by two earthquakes.
The stories follow one another and all have a lot in common, as a tragic show that sadistically must go on.
A tale that, despite venial differences, has always the same opening words...

The earth shakes.

The first is a classic and is good for all the others.
Wherever you are, how much courage you can keep in the chest, the fear comes over and starts to court you.
It knows that the time is good.
And what would be better?
The floor starts to dance, the furniture join the dramatic ritual, prisoners of a magnetic choreography, ignorable only by those who minimize the remaining life, among diehard crazies and incurable rashes.
Then there is it, the true star of the show. The chandelier begins its solo and the victim audience cannot help but stare with eyes torn by terror, with one and only desire exploding inside.
Stop, please, stop immediately that torment. Let everything be as before.
Only then, as often happens, the prayer is heard but then elapsed.
Much more with that, indeed.
But the earth still trembles.
Under what survived and what has taken its place.
The story written above, as a hasty copy and paste, somewhat approximate.
So, where the dance begins again, all comes back.
To shake lives and silences.
To seize all physical and natural law, drawing back the already seen scourge on the as much torn canvas.
Then you remember only one thing: how it worked, or the way you have believed.
Please don’t do this anymore, you whisper. I swear that I will be a better person after, you add, with the desperate hope that increasing the weight of your virtuous possibilities will defeat the ruthless destiny on the other side of the scale.
Like identical chapters, even deceptive blanks follow one another.
When the rough past softens by dust and neglect.
When you deceive yourself that your house is not dancing anymore.
Well, my dear friend, that is the exact time when the cruel staging begins.
When the earth shakes, and you do not realize it.
When you have turned the head and the powerful, barren and dishonest hand, with vulgar tricks and lies disguised ‘as happy future for all’, decide your fate.
When the latter no longer depends on tremor of the earth itself, but the only, real chance you have of surviving.
Because if the earth trembled, trembles and will tremble again.
The only thing that matter is to stop forgetting…

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Anti refugee protest barricade in Italy: right to hate story

Stories and News No. 921

Pretending to be one of 'them': “Rejoice, dear patriots. In Gorino, a pleasant village in the province of Ferrara, Italy, the industrious and brave inhabitants, assisted by the equally bold countrymen of Goro, they promptly lifted up a barricade to prevent the invasion of twelve, monstrous alien creatures. In short, migrants, and also women. After a strong resistance by our heroes, the unwanted were rejected. Be happy, people who still feel pure ardor for your land. The honor is fine and the future of the good and heroic population is safe...”

Once upon a time there was a town.

The town where a sacred right was defended at the cost of life: the right to hate.
The entire community had built itself on this base.
Every citizen has the right to hate, said an invisible item of a particular constitution, written somewhere in the body, certainly not in the heart. This feeling can be directed to anything or anyone, for any reason. And, whatever the form which it occurs in, only one answer will be granted: ‘these people are exasperated’. As a result, ‘these people should be understood’.
The town where the right to hate was sacrosanct and protected at the cost of life was, perhaps not coincidentally, bounded by a wall which defined insurmountable would be quite an understatement.
The architect who had designed it, known by the nickname of The bulwark, was a true delight of the city, which the latter was very proud of.
Now, as they say, there's always a first time for everything.
In fact, the time came that all alarms started to sound.
The siren screamed angrily at night, causing a lot of anxiety and fear in the villagers.
"What happens?" Many cried out going on the street.
"It was just a bad contact?" Some wished looking out the window.
"It may be a joke of the village's idiot?" Others hypothesized.
"No," replied him directly from the cemetery, "since I died the day before yesterday. Too bad, though, I should have made it before... "
Nothing to do, the reality judgment was tragically indisputable.
Someone had passed over.
Something had gone beyond the wall.
The intruder was among them.
provided security protocols were immediately applied.
Angry patrols swarmed everywhere, streets and alleys were brightly lit by blinding flashlights, sturdy batons and sharp teeth vibrated at the same time, wide eyes searched every corner of the town.
In vain.
They asked The bulwark himself to recheck the wall and all alarms.
In vain.
They also took the black box, made it into pieces and listen hundreds of times the same, terrible siren, with the unsuccessful hope that they have been victims of a blatant, collective hallucination.
In vain, terribly vain.
Once upon a time there was a town, in conclusion.
A town where hate was an inviolable right, defended with life.
However, an old African proverb says - this is a lie, but let’s pretend it was true, sooner or later the night comes when a crack appears in the wall.
Well, something always passes. Believe me, like it or not, the time comes when it does.
A story, not a person, a handful of words, not what you have always feared.
Then, in the morning, you wake up and realize that you gave your life to defend the right to hate.

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Protests in the world: the line that binds it

Stories and News No. 920

Today's strike in Italy and many protest, but, lifting our gaze across the border, people have also raised in Ethiopia, where 1500 were arrested, in Congo, where the so-called security forces shot, burned, beaten and killed at least 45 civilians, and also in the Philippines two days ago, where the police used a van to disperse the alleged troublemakers.

There are other worlds besides this.

I like to think that, sometimes, when things get too ugly to be looked at.
I have to do, when I am not even able to imagine.
Of strikes and protests, for example.
Strikes and protests one of them is woven of.
A spherical world, as the best known should be, but much less regular.
Hard stuff to draw, in fact.
Part of that convoluted table of illegal forms, called by the experts of freedom, the geometry of awkward shapes.
It is a strange world to draw, I agree, but if you happen to grasp, even casually, the right end of the rope, you just have to follow the thread up to the light.
Nothing particularly bright, remember. We are still talking about forgotten souls, if you know what I mean.
However, understanding the muffled reasons has a brilliance that is worth even a fast touch sideways.
Are you there? Follow me, then.
Of strikes and protests, I said.
Come along the top of an apparently soft slender and is not a victory to prove it, but a stubborn kind of defeat. One that has brought us to return again, to remain standing when the stick bites and sitting when the pain increases.
It is a thin rope, almost invisible to the naked eye, but it is not accidental and is trivial, I admit. Because to fully see what unites us, never what divides, you need a far disrobed look.
Fill pupils and all the rest with human feelings and live emotions and you will see.
You will see what they do not.
You will see hands clinging to the rope, fingers of every color and size, but tightfitting to that as the body to the most mistreated quality in all the worlds.
Read as well as the stubborn affection for the rights of all.
You will also see the hands that have lost their precious foothold and those who sacrificed one of the two to keep on board the others.
You will see the warmth of those same hands.
And despite the mutation of traditions and words, complexions and stories, this energy feeds from the beginning of time the life that resists to life.
The one which is not of this world nor the others, because since it has abused its very nature, has given up the only true citizenship we share.
Nevertheless it slaughters lives as if it were their absolute master.
Of strikes and protests a world has tied, where the day will come that the tyrant will fall, believe me.
They always do.
And if you will be lucky and patient, sooner or later, you will see that too.

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Humanitarian pause in Aleppo to steal time

Stories and News No. 919

Despite it seems there have already been violations, the humanitarian pause decided by Moscow began in Aleppo, Syria, to grant treatment to the wounded and sick, as well as the opportunity to civilians and combatants to leave the city.

Come, ladies and gentlemen, come in.

Come into the fantastic realm of humanitarian pause.
Where the seconds become minutes, minutes turn into endless dreams and hours freeze to death in the tight fists of timeless creatures.
Call us like that, we like it.
We are homeless too, certainly, but also without doors and windows, no dresser and nightstand.
Without any comfort.
Hopelessness, many.
No escape, too many.
Nevertheless this is not the right page to cry.
The lords of war and peace have rolled the die and the time hands have bowed their head.
They always do, even when they dance, but this moment, only this, it is for a good cause.
What a weird and crazy marriage of words.
Imagine the courtship, the first few days.
Hello, Pause is my name.
Please to meet you, Humanitarian is mine.
Stop the bombs, it is the meaning of my life.
The human being at the center of everything, it is mine.
And if it is love, let love be, that brings joy and good health to the rest of us.
However it remains the perplexity of the original pairs, such as the giant woman and the mouthy dwarf, the kind girl that becomes a beauty and the beast who learns to speak, the dancer without shoes and the spendthrift cobbler, you cannot help but admire them, by asking one question above all: how do they get together?
Pause, your time would be perfect at all instants prior to your arrival, to ward off all the terrible after’s that followed.
Humanitarian, your time instead should be always.
Nevertheless, this is not the suitable tale for complaining.
As absurd as the title and the plot are.
As paradoxical as design and costumes are, hurry, do not hesitate.
You, utopias' musicians, resume your instruments, chords and play along us.
You too, donors of imaginary brackets, open an infinity of them, one inside the other, up to deceive flames, knives and gunpowder.
They should die, rather than us.
And the rest of you, at the lucky side of the glass looking upon the life that takes a breath in the aquarium of death, try it yourself.
To steal murderers’ time…

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Calais Jungle what is it: the story

Stories and News No. 918

According to Calais Migrant Solidarity since 2009 there have been 100 to 5,000 migrants in Calais, come with the hope of arriving in the UK.
People from around the world, such as Iran, Afghanistan, Pakistan, Somalia, Egypt, Syria, Sudan, Palestine, Chad, Eritrea, Iraq, Albania, Senegal, Kurdistan, Libya and Ethiopia.
But why jungle? I read that the name is the translation of a word in Pashto, an Iranian language spoken in Afghanistan and Pakistan, which means forest

There was once a jungle.
Which in our language is a land covered with dense vegetation dominated by trees, and the nearest corresponding scientific term is maybe seasonal tropical forest.
Well, then we might as well say there was once a forest.
But it does not work, right?
Because if someone tells you a story of forests, then you think of woods, talking animals, fairies and

fairy tales.
No, there is no place for such things, here.
Because, despite the fact, the jungle is not or should not be kids’ stuff.
So, once upon a time there was a jungle.
But not like those of Emilio Salgari’s novels.
Where the good ones are the alleged wild people and the bad guys are the real invaders, safe
beyond the sea.
Here things were different.
Because, since the stories exist, who tells them decide the rules.
Then, there was once a different jungle.
Yes, different, because whereas in adventure novels is difficult to enter, and you need great courage and recklessness
to cross the intricate trees, here it was exactly the opposite.
Indeed, despite all the courage and recklessness of the world, you could spend there the whole of a life time.
Then seeing history repeating itself.
And yet again.
Therefore, there was once a different jungle where it was difficult to get out.
And where it was easy to stay endlessly.
Moreover, to deny any connection with the previous narratives, here there were no striking exotic plants and fascinating views to distract from the infamy of life.
Nor ferocious felines and impressive elephants to freeze a blood already frozen.
There were no robust lianas to rise from a never satisfied pittance.
And not even secret passages in ancient ruins to escape somewhere.
There was once a different jungle, for short.
Where you remained forever, once entered.
Read as living perpetually dissatisfied, searching in vain for a way out.
You know what is the most ridiculous story? That the previous sentence seems the caption of one of the many privileged creatures north of the world.
Maybe this is the reason why understanding what this jungle was and why people went there, for many, it is even more difficult to get out of it…

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