Human rights stories: Justice for Adama Traoré and others

Stories and News No. 959

I read that Adama TraorĂ©’s death in the custody of French police has become one of the most discussed cases in Europe on the alleged or proven brutality of the agents. It becomes every day more topical everywhere.
People rightly ask for justice and these days the manifestations in Paris are very crowded.
However, in my humble opinion, the paradoxical aberration that lets who should protect and serve citizens to deprive them of life, offers a simple request of normalcy...


There once was a crazy land.
A totally messed up country, twisted in reasonable logic and mere physical facts.
Adama's sister Assa during a manifestation
In the mad state lived her, Miss Simple.
A quite girl, but nothing bigoted, believe me.
Only someone with an understandable view of life, with emotions in the right place and a spontaneous propensity for harmony with the world's goods.
Nothing special, it should be remembered, but in the realm of the insane, she served as a litmus test, since we are in the senseless ground.
Read as well as the human exception to the wrong rule.
The young lady didn’t understand and so far it was only obvious reaction to events.
However, Miss Simple was far from that and then didn’t just respond.
She wanted answers in turn, struggling with every means against the faults disguised as essential tips and lines.
As a sort of wrong Don Quixote, with no Sancho in support, alone and proud she threw the spear against the dragons with empty eyes and foaming at the mouth.
And she said no to any accepted abnormalities, reciting aloud the distortions tolerated by her peers.
A scarf should protect your throat from cold currents, never strangling you, she said.
An umbrella should save you from the rain, let alone get lightning in profusion.
The lifeline at sea is there to avoid your drowning, because there is air inside, no heavy, murderous stones as dull hatred.
Traffic lights is the last bulwark between the driver and his fellows, one of the rare cases in which the colors are really essential in our common journey, it should then change policy, and not as a mere coincidence.
As if the lives at stake did not matter at all.
As if everything was just a game.
Of lives.
Similarly, the parachute should be the most exciting way to get courageously back to the temporarily hailed earth, not the fastest way to do it. Maybe refusing what is written, opening on command and guiding the healthy traveler safely home.
These and many others, too, were the contradictory cracks that Miss Simple saw and rejected in her country.
She never stopped doing so.
Because she knew that screaming the simple normalcy, from her own point of view, was her right.
And maybe her duty too.


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Stories about environment: one of us trees

Stories and News No. 958

In Cambodia the timber tycoons, working with local officials, are seriously undermining the survival of the Prey Lang’s forest.
In defense of the latter there is Leng Ouch, who reveals to fear for his life and his loved ones, but that does not stop him.
Because Leng is one of them...


In Cambodia there are trees.
In Cambodia there are crazy trees.

Because it’s so everywhere, if you think about it.
If you think about it carefully, nowadays you are really crazy to choose to be born tree, in this world.
Also river or lake would be would as much risky choices, if not masochistic.
But you know how vulnerable minds are, ready to be crossed by every living thing desired, with a tirelessly heart, which makes it noteworthy of a story.
So, where the trees lost their mind to think of being the center of the universe, they themselves narrate tales and dreams.
To see everything and everyone as souls composed of plant and root.
Still only at birth and death.
Now, imagine the traditional version, the sacrificial victim of your kingdom.
Read as well as the illusion from the human point of view.
Well, those that over time you have learned to simply call trees, are just witnesses, silent spectators, those that have not yet learned to run and shout.
But this doesn’t mean they didn’t breath and move towards the horizon which all, trees or not, are going to.
This doesn’t stop them to watch and listen the admirable life.
Of a tree, of course.
Because I said at the very beginning, madness is the key, the most obstinate form of it, let's face it, the only one that really had the chance to bring down the castle of the evil.
Here it is, the protagonist of their bizarre visions.
One of them… or us, it always depends on which way you read the story.
An extraordinary tree with eyes and ears, touch and taste, and all his special senses devoted to the care of a crucial planet.
That is, the only one we have.
The only one we really are from.
A tree that is willing to lose sap and oxygen, light and future for his fellow people, the much underrated terrestrial beings.
A type of tree that reveals the error at the end, the naive mistake of green creatures.
I am one of you, he says with words and especially gestures.
Because, for you, I would give myself.
And because I know that without you, myself would not be here anymore.
They,
who are cursed, they're only human


Read more stories about environment
Buy my latest book Elisa and the wonderful world of objects
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Stories about women's rights in Spain

Stories and News No. 957

These days the city of Madrid has decided to commemorate a lost generation of women among writers, artists, scientists and thinkers silenced by Francisco Franco’s government.
This is an all-female story...


A story of phrases and words, like all others, that’s clear.
But where nothing is left to chance.

Because when the genre seriously matters, or where it causes hate and repression, letters are all capital, vowels are loud and consonants bite.
The syntax shines light and the sense of the tale comes to life with female energy.
The same kind of each word, then.
That alone is worth the price of the strophe, never verse, within a song without the usual, useless chorus, to lift the spirits and cheer the easy ears.
The music is a result of a stubborn magic, no makeup and trump card, that just when it seems to completely die, it raises an eyebrow and looks at you.
From afar it scrutinizes you with female memory, the same kind of the same voice who wrote about joy and sorrow.
She is an elusive ballerina, the one who gives birth only to courage.
It seems you may touch her, there, on stage, besides the transparent screen of the days gone.
It seems real, even today.
And just when you convince yourself that the show is now finished, you see her embracing the love of her life and yours.
Indignation, she is her bride, inside the more banished wedding on earth between identical yet perfectly compatible genres.
The godly wrath par excellence, mother of all the healthy reactions to the destruction of human rights, at a time when the witness nature wept incredulous tears.
Nevertheless, peace will come.
Of course, sooner or later history will try to remedy it.
Yet she knew it.
With female patience she accepted the bitter time limits and its dictators, who with that naive and blind fury did everything to bend soul and heart.
So the stories and the words, letters and voices, indignation and more than ever the imagination of a genre of women.
That despite death, fortunately for everyone, today, right now, are still here...


Read more stories about life
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Stranded whales New Zealand 2017: Babatunde’s dream

Stories and News No. 956

Hundreds of whales died during the night on the New Zealand’s shores after a mass stranding considered the largest in decades.
The news is now viral around the world, images are everywhere and so the participation for the tragedy, while the staff of the Department of Conservation and about 500 volunteers are focused on how to save the survived whales until the next high tide.
However, as always, not all react to the news the same way...

At night, in a crowded room, somewhere in Africa...

"Guys, I have a dream for you," says Babatunde,

only five years old, but a lot of crazy ideas, rarely liked by his brothers.
"Another one?" asks with sarcasm one of them, the closest among those who try to fall asleep. "Do you never get tired?"
"This time is a good one."
"So the last time," says another kid. "Then, fortunately, you did understand that building a submarine is science fiction."
"No, this time it's all natural."
"Let him speak," says the oldest brother, "otherwise we won’t sleep tonight."
"Thanks bro."
"Don’t thank me, and hurry up, I want to sleep."
"You know the whales?"
"What? A quiz?" says the one obsessed with riddles. "Come on, I like it."
"It is not a quiz..."
"Let him reach the end, please?" screams the first-born.
"Maybe this time it's a good idea…" speaks the only sister.
"Thank you!"
"Don’t thank me," she says. "I am optimist by nature."
"Okay, I see."
"Don’t see: tell!" orders the primogenital.
"I said... I mean, I was wondering if you remember the whales and let’s assume so."
"Whales or whale sharks?" demands the most meticulous brother. "They’re not the same thing..."
"Do we have genius, here?" cries the eldest brother risking to lose control. "If he wanted to talk about the whale sharks he would say whale sharks, right?"
"So right, thank you... and I understand, I should not thank you."
"Good, let’s finish this."
"Well, I recently knew that when the whales reach the coasts of pink men – even in those lands children used to identify colors more accurately than adults - instead of leaving them to die or even comment on the tragedy with hatred and indifference, they come so many to rescue and help to survive them and everyone is supportive and compassionate."
"What is the dream?" asks the little sister.
"Simple. Tomorrow morning we dive and we let a whale eats us. So we expect to arrive on a more fortunate beach than ours and while the inhabitants are all trying to save it we covertly get out from its... "
"From its?" they ask in chorus.
"From its ears, what did you think?"
"Since when did the whales have ears?" inquires the nearest brother.
"They must have it," replies his sister. "Otherwise, how can they listen to when they sing?"
"Ears or no ears, whales do not eat children," reports the oldest kid. "This dream is stupid."
"But the sea does", replies the young dreamer.
A deep and conscious silence follows the bitter response.
The brothers strive so not to give in to sadness and everyone tries to sleep using the best weapon they have, which is a flaky and irresponsible strange form of imagination.
So, that night, some children sailed from Africa half hammerhead and half dolphin, very fast and capable of breaking every wall.
Octopus children, able to grab all the gifts in the world forgotten in the sea.
Jellyfish children, beautiful and stinging, which no one can hurt.
Light children as the same water of the waves, which may touch the shore everywhere, and no one can prevent it.
Indeed, many will be there to admire them.
Because it would be just another of the endless, wonderful and fragile gifts of nature…


Read more stories of immigrants
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Stories about life: Nicholas Green story

Stories and News No. 955

Andrea Mongiardo died in Rome because of a lymphoma. He was the man who 22 years ago received as a gift the heart of Nicholas Green, the 7 years old child murdered by mistake during a robbery in South Italy.

When the heart dies twice.

When the heart dies twice, it means that it lived,

twice.
And many more have enjoyed the benefits.

Because when the heart dies twice, arithmetic and its rules go out the window.
Because the love that subtracts creates endless empty, but when the operation is the sum, you write well multiplication.

When the heart dies twice, you may cry as much, but they are defused tears.
They don’t delete smiles and gratitude for received and given gifts.

When the heart dies twice it means that someone dreamed more.
The life that follows, and the one that gave birth to the former.
If you think about it, it's just life, nothing less.

When the heart dies twice, the echo of the heartbeat is strongest.
So, if they tell you this time it's really over, you tell them to be quiet.
And listen.

When the heart dies twice the stories are two for the price of one.
Although the end is the same, it’s worth .
To live them.

Because when the heart dies the second time you’ll see on the screen both the lives.
Then the images start to mix and the drawing gets enriched with new shapes and unexpected colors.
Tell me if this is not the living art.

Then widen your heart, because when it dies twice means the show deserved.
That was important to be there.
So it’s worth to do it again, now you know.

Therefore, when you’ll meet again the heart that lived two times you will appreciate the moral.
Of the story.
Of those who gave life and time.
And those who have lived each second thanking the friend from the past.
Tell me if this is not the meaning of being human.

Consequently, when the heart dies twice do not remain on the sidelines.
Take note of the only temporarily interrupted journey.
Remember the last destination on the horizon.
Continue to walk for them.
With all of them.
The ones who with unconditional affection for life exchange the baton and together wonderfully survive.


Read more stories about life
Buy my latest book Elisa and the wonderful world of objects
Listen my song Wolves
Watch my last storytelling show with English subtitles It's amazing what a little light can do
Storytelling videos with subtitles