Moral stories: Trump and the bullying people

Stories and News No. 998

The video at the G7 when Trump sharply pushed at side Duško Marković, Montenegro's premier, is already viral around the world.
Well, the movie with a leader who stands out among his international colleagues for embarrassing actions or statements seems no new to me.
In any case, what stands out this time is the peculiarity of the improper gesture.
While the old Mister B. interpreted the role of the clown, in the same days when the Republican Greg Gianforte assaulted a Guardian reporter, the American president acts the bully character, doing the same with those who dare to stand between him and the best shot
.

Ladies and gentlemen, here they are, the bullying people.
They snarl and drool, scream and flush with anger, if they are not there.
On the front row, where the armchairs are more comfortable, where you and only you can put

questions, enjoying the privilege of not answering.
He is trendy, the man from the brain with biceps, the anabolic heart and the pumped soul, until the veins emerge. So you may see the blood and its uncontrollable flow, indifferent to any obstacle on the road, especially if you are sick of good intellect and great imagination. The worst couple for the short-sighted warrior with big hands, the most unavoidable union, the true banned marriage. Because where the propensity to knowledge of things joins, in a virtuous embrace, the art of drawing castles, strictly devoid of gravity, the ancient formula becomes invincible.
You cannot bully what you cannot grasp, in every sense.
You can only kill him, and history tells that, oh it does.
Therefore, it is not enough to remove the annoying presence with violence.
It must be done with clamor, under the chorus of flashes and microphones starving for transgression.
Everyone must see it, everyone must learn, and everyone should remember.
What can be done.
What it must be done.
Otherwise they will be left behind, saying nonsense and making ridiculously laugh, bragging with buddies of the vile actions and sharing hate for the others, those who do not need to bully the weaker, to make room in the world.
Here they are, then.
The people who used to bully and, necessarily, reject.
Because there is no peace in the chest for those who have no other way to stay in the saddle.
The speech is only, and ever, a war one, with different words, but the
lonely man's monologue doesn’t change.
It's the same from the beginning of time.
I am and you all, if you do not obey, are just enemies.
However, the game has its unchanged rules.
Try to raise your head.
And the leader will attack you.
Try to tell your ideas.
The leader will tender furthermore his arms.
Join your cry with all the others, and you will see, as it has already happened, the bully man losing balance and fall...


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Migrants stories: viral news rules

Stories and News No. 997

More than 30 people have drowned beyond Libya, among them many children. About 200 have fallen from a boat carrying 500 to 700 passengers. Rescue ships are still looking for survivors.
It’s a disgrace that has become a habitual anecdote, confused and confusable in the global, media storytelling, which has its own personal rules.
Perhaps the negligible and neglected victims of this disturbing movie we are witnessing should also benefit from the modern, and especially viral, narrative formula.
Maybe, it will help us understand how much tragedies are connected one other and that the distance we ingenuously build within us, such as the one between heart and mind, is the main reason for our impotence...


Attack.
There was another attack, ladies and gentlemen.
Once again terrorism hit us.
Once again, the good people's enemies have smashed our peace.

There were dead, otherwise we would not be here, now.
Some very young, further reason to be.
To join the pain.
And the right indignation.
No official claims have come, so far.
However, the dynamics seem unmistakable.
So we can say they did it.
The assassin waves.
The extremist cells that, with cruel flushes, interrupt innocent travelers journey.
Whether on the ground, or by sea, the result doesn’t change.
It should not, right?
Delicate souls have got the future erased for the sake of the world’s inhumanity and hate.
Is not that, the bitter subject which gives life to the multifaceted death show?
Don’t be distracted by those who only aim to make the scene more nebulous.
Maybe fantasizing suggestions or, worse, feel-good interpretations, saying that waves were not accountable for the vile lives murder.
They would tell you it was the wind to do it.
They will tell you that someone else is hiding behind it. A sort of malicious blower, from the lungs, and more than ever the belly full of hatred for human peoples.
Or even that, in spite of a mere casualty, particularly hostile to the most vulnerable hopes, there are down there, in the depths of the oceans, disturbing fishermen of grammarian destinies, who simply make their career to eat dead remains.
Kamikaze waves will not win.
Let's say this together, now.
They will not be able to influence our lifestyle.
Because, telling the truth, it was never a matter of style for us.
Only life.
We will continue to travel without fear in the suitcase.
Only in the eyes, sometimes, in front of the unpredictable horizon waiting for us, coloured with asphalt and metallic noises.
Terrorism will not stop us.
Because terrorism, and the answers that really hides, are what forces us to leave...


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Stories to think about: robbers and robbed in Africa and the world

Stories and News No. 996

According to yet another international research, the world is robbing Africa's riches of billions of dollars a year. The main factors contributing to this inequality include, above all, the unfair payment of the debts by foreign corporations, which hide their income through tax evasion and corruption. Aisha Dodwell, a Global Justice Now’s activist, said: "There’s such a powerful narrative in western societies that Africa is poor and that it needs our help. This research shows that what African countries really need is for the rest of the world to stop systematically looting them."

Once upon a time there was a robber.
One of the old kind, who are born so and never cease to exist.
By vocation, or just following History’s order.
I’m talking about the great Story with the capital ‘s’, of course, that differently from the modest

initial letter's ones, where it tells lies, always does for a specific reason.
The robber was a robber and acted as such.
Therefore, as an inevitable consequence of his presence, we need space on the page for two more fundamental elements.
That’s really difficult without to understand what is really happening.
I am referring to the stolen goods, and above all, the robbed.
So far, the plot.
The only worthy of this name.
The first, original draft, loyal to what a careful eye and a clean consciousness would reveal a child too.
However, you know how it went and still goes.
The man who writes and tells the most important events, where the purpose is not art or a sincere affection for the listener, is an editor interested in sales before anything else.
Before the manuscript arrives, to be honest.
So the robber became an explorer.
But you can also read as merchant.
The stolen goods just goods.
And the robbed the savage.
There was once, then, a merchant explorer.
One of the old ones, which don’t really arise in such clothes, but once in the track they must dance.
The show has to go on and, above all, get a popular success.
The explorers, or merchants, behaved according to the script.
They left, came and discover, or took, everything they found.
It didn’t matter so much if someone else, long ago and without moving a foot from his own home, was able to stretch out a hand and grab all that.
Here is the real difference between one and the other.
The so-called savage appreciates things for what they are, the explorer, or merchant, for what they will be.
This is how water and nature’s fruits, from free wonders, become goods.
Nevertheless, the words and hand’s trick is now known.
It tore faces from the protagonists and paste them as comfortable masks.
Indeed, there once was a new robber.
A character, to be precise.
One of those of past times, which become so for astute demands from the director, in the form of alleged, popular acclamation.
The robber needed a reason to be believable in the common storytelling.
Thus, for this crucial role, was chosen the savage.
What a better candidate than who has nothing else anymore in his hands?
So, found the robber, other choices are logical for exclusion.
You need only the proper name to place them on the main scene at the right angle and more than ever to be sold everywhere.
Clear what once was the stolen goods, and write jobs and opportunities, futures and lands, homes and rights, benefits and privileges.
In short, what the man, now called a robber, wants back. And instead of the past one, just yesterday called explorer or merchant, you can put citizen and western, civilized and modern, owner and consumer.
But, above all, who in the today farce act as the robbed


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Racism stories for kids 2017: The Bogeyman’s son

Stories and News No. 995

"Dad?"
"Yes?"
"Are you bad?"
"No, I'm not, why do you say that?"
"Because at school the teacher read us a story

where bad kids were taken away by the Bogeyman and he is a black man. Why do you get them, Daddy, if you're not bad?"
"I do not get anyone, son, that's just a fairy tale..."
"But you have always told me that there are often more truths in the fables than in reality, right?"
"Yes, sure... you remember everything, huh?"
"I try. Am I bad too?"
"Not even for a dream, son, why do you ask that?"
"Dad, if bad children are taken away by the Bogeyman, the latter must be even worse than them. And if I am his son, that is, yours..."
"Listen to me now carefully. Your teacher has told you a story of one Boogeyman who takes away bad children, not everyone. Are the children all bad?"
"No…"
"Not even all Boogeymen are, here it is."
"I get it. And what about the knight?"
"Who?"
"The black knight, he's always the bad guy, everybody knows that. I’m sorry for his children..."
"You're totally wrong, son, and I’ll prove it to you. You understand I'm not bad, right?"
"Yes, but I knew it already, I just wanted a confirmation..."
"Agree. Assured I'm not bad, if tomorrow the king came to me..."
"There is no longer the king, Dad."
"Let's pretend he is, okay? We're still talking about stories, aren’t we?"
"Okay."
"Then the king comes and makes me a knight. What do I become?"
"What do you become?"
"The Black Knight, that's what."
"And you're not bad, Dad!"
"So, what kind of black knight I will be?"
"A good one!"
"Exactly."
"And I would be the good knight’s son."
"That’s right."
"You know, Daddy?"
"What?"
"There would be more stories where black men and knights are good instead of bad, it would be all righter and fairer."
"I'm trying to do that, my dear son, you have no idea how much I’m working to tell them..."


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Stories to think about: when a journalist is killed

Stories and News No. 994

Javier Valdez was murdered Monday at noon, near the Ríodoce (Twelfth River) headquarters, the newspaper he co-founded in 2003. Valdez has been hit 12 times, in what his colleagues believe is a premeditated aggression because of their common and courageous commitment against drug cartels.
A few weeks ago, he had been terrifying premonitory of his fate, when, after the murder of yet another journalist, Miroslava Breach, he had said: "Let them kill us all, if that is the death sentence for reporting this hell. No to silence."
According to an organization for the press freedom, Article 19, at least 104 journalists have been assassinated in Mexico since 2000 to date.


When a journalist is killed.
When a journalist is killed, with him, some words die.
The ingenuous ones and those who focus on the target.

But the sound of each single letter moves apart from the end of the speech and rises even higher when the wind feeds on the bravery of listeners.
When a journalist is killed, while he was still scrabbling lies away from the story imposed by force or deceit, the virtuously drawn empty spaces are immediately filled again by horizons usurpers.
The traditional ones, that’s clear, and even the imaginative ones, which for the most part of the world are vital rafts to have at least one more day.
But the noble gesture is ineradicable, and it is sufficient for a proud, or even unconscious, imitator to shake back in favor of the sacrificed creature: "It was worth it, dear friend of us all."
When a journalist is killed, while he was still scrabbling lies away from the story imposed by force or deceit, though he was left alone to face the monsters, the latter win twice, grimly observing the won face of two, distinct types of victims.
The one of the fierce fellows, from the closed eyes that only a virulent coward would be able to blind, and the one of the easy silence profiteers.
But the solitude of this story is like the story of a solitude, as long as time runs, no one is able to predict the final.
When a journalist is killed, while he was still scrabbling lies away from the story imposed by force or deceit, though he was left alone to face the monsters, and you know there were many others before, it means that for every death brutality has become more human.
That illusory set of features that should make us the chosen species on the planet, though at this point of the path we should perhaps ask ourselves who or what really made that questionable choice.
But this same bitter count can be enumerated in the opposite direction, feeding admiration and astonishment before those who, with clear evidence of danger, have nevertheless chosen the way for the same martyrdom.
When a journalist is killed, yes.
When a journalist is killed, with him, some dreams die.
Those naive, of course, but among them the possible miracle as well.
Anyway, it remains somewhere, you just have to know where to look.
Because when a journalist is killed, while he was still scrabbling lies away from the story imposed by force or deceit, though he was left alone to face the monsters, and you know there were many others before, it means that someone was right.
And somebody else, no matter how cruel he is, still today, is trembling with fear.
Of what a journalist will write…


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