Migrants stories: who is the real clandestine?

Stories and News No. 984

About 2000 people from various indigenous groups gathered in the Brazilian capital to seek respect for their land, staging a protest that has led to clashes with the police in front of the Congress, considered to favor the rich corporations.

Once upon a time there was a land.
The land where we were born.
Where we lived.
Where we loved and hated.

Where we built as many lives and written stories.
Our stories, indeed, that’s an unquestionably truth, I am not talking at all about those postcards and magniloquent tales that strictly rained from above.
There were once, them.
The real heirs of colours and gifts, original sounds and shapes survived to legalized pollution.
The forgotten inhabitants, the invisible people, the unwanted persons of all time.
Embarrassing beings of the past for tomorrow's humanity as the most dangerous creatures for the framing’s thief, the lynching juggler to serve the rich of every era, capable of turning words from innocent to cursed.
Indigenous doesn’t mean uncivil, you know?
Aborigine has precedence over citizen, would you ever say that?
Indio is a much more far-sighted, balanced and aware word than hired with contract for an indefinite period by the compulsory consumers society.
It's time to stop the real invaders.
We are right, because we are the returning dead.
The human wavers from the butterfly effect of an unmistakable extermination.
The children of a too lurking genocide to be hidden beneath carpets made by small and innocent hands, but daily sold and bought by bulimic clients from easy palates and awareness.
Get out of our land, migrants with lazy memory.
You’re the gatekeepers trampling on hopes and destinies by profession, and then you’ll try to reject others, as if time did not exist.
As the world was not the world, and the rules of the peaceful existence could be overcome by personal egoisms and a pervading addiction to idiocy.
Enough with checks and transactions, investitures and investments, percentages and capital gains.
Leave your claws and fangs out of our land.
Go out, clandestines of the nature.
You, like all of us, have received the residence permit from the fate, but you have misguided it as the dominion over the others.
You are the strangers among the living species.
You are the others, not us.
Because we've been here since the beginning of time.
Because we are this land.
So, there was once the sense of the story.
What's really at stake.
The path that divides us, the water that crosses, the sun that accompanies us all to the inevitable end.
The land, respect and protect the land, and you will see that there will never be war.
Between you and us.


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Italy liberation day 2017 and all missed conjugations

Stories and News No.983

Once upon a time there was a word.
Its anniversary was celebrated every year.
Since the instant when the same word was chosen as founding stone of the common home of a people.

Nevertheless, History and, above all, stories teach that only one stone, though venerated and polished, glorified as a primal and symbol for all others, it is not the entire home.
It's only the beginning.
It's just a word.
The words, more than ever, those capable of defining the present, tracing virtuous paths and guiding the creatures at least to a better landfall, they need life.
Because since the one with the uppercase had to become flesh to be heard deeply down, the very human sets of letters, however swirling of high meanings, should become a verb.
I am talking about action to write as many stories as possible, movement that raises the most indifferent among the deaf, legal apathies, a large, collective and magnetic march to attract souls at the most distant borders, thanks to the most persuasive weapon in the world.
Read as well as the awareness of being in the same crew: we sail, we return to the ground with the full nets or we sink, all together.
If you need to counteract, among the most trivial examples, I offer the most abused term by the scribes of all time. The protagonists of fiction as the real actors of life both know that.
Love, deprived of coherent gestures, without the approach of more or less accelerated heartbeats, lacking the inevitable sacrifice of adored solitude and short of courage in denuding the latter on the opposite bank of own life, it is just a punch of five letters.
As many fingers unable to make sense of the precious gifts received, see touching, tightening, greeting and caressing.
There was once then in Italy, on the twenty-fifth day of April, a word.
Liberation.
An incredible day, of course.
An almost perfect drawing inside the album to be preserved with care.
An aged photograph, agreed but protected by the best glass, which exalts colours and attenuates wrinkles.
We perfectly learned to pronounce that very first story hint.
That noun introducing the incipit of an entire nation.
And we set it up with a sort of sacred ritual in the appropriate urn on the mandatory calendar.
However, as already written for the most indispensable among human feelings, the words that lay behind generations after generations and still others need to be continuously conjugated since the first day.
We already know what Liberation is, but it is just a word that we celebrate every year.
From tomorrow, or even without much anticipation, we should start once and for all to liberate everything we have never released at all, which we still hold as prisoners inside jails that we do not even care more about hiding.
Let’s liberate rights, because the page of our dullness and fears is still very long.
Let’s liberate victims, because the list of considered as minor citizens and the inflicted tortures on them in our country is infinite today.
Let’s liberate horizons, because the rift of a peaceful future in the heart of the so-called civilized world is even tapering.
Let's liberate, let's liberate them, let's liberate us.
Then, if we will, even without waiting for another year.
We will really have something to celebrate.


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Stories to think about: terrorism who how and why?

Stories and News No. 982

Terrorism is for those who want to scare, the very first one is trivial.
No matter who he really is, why does not counts, only the effect does.

Terrorism is useful to those who were already afraid, so now they feel less alone.
Even in such a case they do not matter how or why, the feeling is priceless.
Terrorism is the cure-all for the one who loves to be afraid and nothing more.
Let us figure out the weight of who, how and why.
Terrorism is good to those who are not afraid at all, but they see how it works.
Above all, they knows the past history.
The countless occasions where the show of death and violence, if bathed by the brightest lights, has a magical power.
In a matter of seconds, it extends the looks, completely extinguishes intelligences that are already overwhelmed by an idiotic marathon at a low price and dissipates the courage of an entire society, which, like a tiny candle, finds itself at the mercy of the affected winds.
Who, how and why are just forgotten imaginative words.
Terrorism is perfect for individuals craving to tell it, draw it and play it in every chord, and like the celebrated piper of the fairy tales, can lead the short-sighted eye creatures to the skirt, even if overlooked by an invincible, protected by invaluable walls, castle.
Ask who, try to say how, dare whispering why and you will instantly be the enemy.
Or even a terrorist.
Terrorism is the favorite art of them, the terrorists.
However, seriously strive to understand what is behind who, how and why and you won't find something beautiful, but the true monstrosity of this mischievous joke.
Terrorism is the utmost for those who never have questions but an unmistakable need for easy answers.
Woe to you, if you will try to ingratiate the horizon of such simplified souls or complicate their plot by drawing on who, how and why.
Terrorism is ideal for people that normally have a lot to say, but nothing sensitive, deeply profound, reasoned enough to have a bit of curiosity for who, how and why.
They need just an explosion, even a shot, at least a heart that stops, and if the condition is favorable, a family setting, not far away from the private emotional landing, and ignoring who, how and why they will bring on stage infinite processions of scattered phrases, free offenses and crazy proclamations, a cacophony of organized downwards delusions, and guided from above idiocrasies.
At the same time, somewhere behind the picture, there is great celebration, thanks to the martyrs.
Somewhere the immense farce is very much appreciated.
So, if you consider the human story from the very beginning, I assume you will agree that terrorism is good for many people.
Otherwise, if the culprit was one or little more, the end of the story would be easy for the muscular narrators and teachers of exemplary punishments.
Terrorism is normal for everyone except the dead and whoever weeps, we might even dare to say.
Because it is stuff sold and bought everywhere, since the world’s dawn.
It's now part of us.


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Love stories: world oldest person's son

Stories and News No. 981

Harold Fairweather, 97 years old, died yesterday in Duanvale, Jamaica, two days after his mother, Violet Brown, 117 years, was declared the oldest person in the world.
A victorious final, in some ways...


Mother.
My dear mother, I know it's unexpected, I realize it.

The rules of the living tale require something else.
Timing is queen, as you have been in my heart and now for the whole world.
Just in the matter of time, look as foolish as fate is.
Sometimes it rewards and brings the daughter of such poor area of the planet to the highest podium, making here undisputed sovereign of the world’s wealthy myth, looking behind and seeing everyone else groping at painstaking steps or jumping in vain on the edge of sparkling cars.
Nevertheless, the broken norm is quite another and I, just myself, am accountable for it.
Mother.
Please, dear mom, forget the unforeseen breach of the protocol, but I chose to leave the scene before the due.
Before you, in short.
Because that is what you are or should be.
The precious, divine and at the same time maternal land where to blossom and sprout between light and heat.
The indispensable condition in order that the most underrated among miracles happened once again.
In one word, life.
Mother.
Don’t cry, mom, but smile, instead.
Because this is the time to stretch your lips and arms to the youngest humanity, the least protected and guided, most vulnerable and least predictable part of our confused dancing company.
The message you’re spreading is holy.
We can win, from here too.
We can be on top of every rank even with little.
We can stir up envy in those who only feed the latter and give relief to the ones who, even today, have lost their hope.
Thank you for having surprised the unlucky creatures, demonstrating them that history can be rewritten at any time.
You might be alive or dead, you might leave the lights or shine beneath them, the result remains unchanged.
We win because you win, mother.
I won, with you, my soul.
Because walking away, I also smiled.
Because I was happy to be the son.
Of the oldest woman in the world…


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Stories to think about: friend or enemy?

Stories and News No. 980

Roberto Berinstain has lived in the US for 20 years, managing a restaurant with his wife, before being deported to Mexico this week.
Although undocumented, the man had a Social Security number, driver's license, permission to work legally and no criminal record.
Everything went according to the recently written script by the new US administration, other than the fact that Roberto's wife voted for Trump...

Once upon time there were friends.
I hope the highest will control them, they used to say.
Maybe because up there all is more evident.

Distinguishing the wheat from the chaff.
Among those who really shake hands with intention and those that draw on facial expressions cooked in due course.
Among those who have such a hurry to embrace you rising doubts whether it is really an hug and those who did not need to get close to show you the best.
The danger, as often happens, comes from above.
So, how it was at the beginning and always will be, who you choose to put there, on the highest throne in the bright sky, makes all the difference in the world.
Especially those who you consider trustful.
Loneliness often makes bad jokes to mind and confuses the soul, but the bad company can be fatal.
So, then, there were once enemies.
The ones who were friends or that always have been opponents, by choice or screenplay’s needs, the plot does not change, the clash is inevitable.
You against them.
Possibly, we against you.
At best, you and me against all.
That’s the greatest spot on the now starless, striped clouds.
Because, if you get lost counting them, you will neglect the number that matters.
How many rights you have surrendered in exchange for a flag to wave in the streets of downtown and a trumpet to blow in time with the crowd.
Therefore, once upon a time friends and enemies.
The soldiers on the floor of the only player on the field.
Read as well as the trickster with ungainly voice screaming behind the veil.
Into the King's room of the just painted Emerald City.
No one seems to win this game.
No one seems to miss.
While someone, somewhere beyond the two-faced walls, reassuring on one side and fearful on the other, he silently collapses and dissolves as memory’s powder.
While you've never understood whether he was or could have been.
Friend or not.


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